Zimmerman was swinging his red-coated military band through a dreamy, sensuous waltz, as they entered the gymnasium, where the Hops, at the Naval Academy, are held. The bareness of the huge room was gone entirely--concealed by flags and bunting, which hung in brilliant festoons from the galleries and the roof. Myriads of variegated lights flashed back the glitter of epaulet and the gleam of white shoulders, with, here and there, the black of the civilian looking strangely incongruous amid the throng that danced itself into a very kaleidoscope of color. The Secretary was a very ordinary man, who had a place in the Cabinet as a reward for political deeds done, and to be done. He represented a State machine, nothing more. Quality, temperament, fitness, poise had nothing to do with his selection. His wife was his equivalent, though, superficially, she appeared to better advantage, thanks to a Parisian modiste with exquisite taste, and her fond husband's bottomless bank account. Having passed the receiving line, the Westons held a small reception of their own. The Admiral was still upon the active list, with four years of service ahead of him. He was to be the next Aide on Personnel, the knowing ones said, and the orders were being looked for every day. Therefore he was decidedly a personage to tie to--more important even than the Secretary, himself, who was a mere figurehead in the Department. And the officers--and their wives, too, if they were married--crowded around the Westons, fairly walking over one another in their efforts to be noticed. "What's the meaning of it?" Croyden asked Miss Cavendish as they joined the dancing throng. "Are the Westons so amazingly popular?" "Not at all! they're hailing the rising sun," she said--and explained: "They would do the same if he were a mummy or had small-pox. 'Grease,' they call it." (The watchword, in the Navy, is "grease." From the moment you enter the Academy, as a plebe, until you have joined the lost souls on the retired list, you are diligently engaged in greasing every one who ranks you and in being greased by every one whom you rank. And the more assiduous and adroit you are at the greasing business, the more pleasant the life you lead. The man who ranks you can, when placed over you, make life a burden or a pleasure as his fancy and his disposition dictate. Consequently the "grease," and the higher the rank the greater the "grease," and the number of "greasers.") "Well-named!--dirty, smeary, contaminating business," said Croyden. "And the best 'greasers' have the best places, I reckon. I prefer the unadorned garb of the civilian--and independence. I'll permit those fellows to fight the battles and draw the rewards--they can do both very well." He did not get another dance with her until well toward the end--and would not then, if the lieutenant to whom it belonged had not been a second late--late enough to lose her.