“But,” sadly, “it’s the one accomplishment I lack, Billee. All the others I have. My young life was not cast in ragtime circles.” “Come, sir, come! I’ll teach you!” He went. She said it was easy. It was not easy. “It’s easy” is a fiction of the game. She did not teach him, but among the dancers was a young man, coat buttoned tight across his waist and lapels spread wide and a little felt hat slouched across his northeast temple, who handled himself and partner like a pair of Indian clubs. It was a pleasure to watch him and the little “skirt” he toyed with. His eyes met Billee’s. He left his partner in the middle of the floor, as a matter of course. “What’s the matter, Bo’?” he said to King. “Can’t little Beauty dance?” King regarded the visitor with amusement. He was too cosmopolitan to take offense. This was New York’s playground. “Ask her,” he said, ironically. “Dance, kid?” said the boy cryptically, to Billee. “Sure!” said Billee, giving her hand. And Billee danced. It was the most wonderful thing, of the kind, King had ever seen. The band was playing “Don’t Blame Me for What Happens in the Moonlight,” and the two figures, threading a marvelous path through the crowd, swayed, dipped, hesitated, glided and whirled in perfect rhythm. Billee’s face glowed with excitement, her gentian eyes half closed harbored all the fun in the world. Passing King, she called: “Going some, friend!” Breathless, at length, she joined him. “T’anks, lady,” said the boy, “you are sure some stepper.” “Same here,” said Billee, politely. Billee was learning slang easily. The boy took one long look at her, his soul in his eyes. “Gee!” he said, and turned away. “Come, let’s get out of this,” urged King. He saw other young men moving towards them. “If that boy who put his arm around you wasn’t Bowery he passes there every day.” “What of it? He’s all American. I like his independence.” “So do I,” said King. “On reflection, I believe I was a little jealous.” “He is the most direct young man I ever met. I told him I was married and he promptly called me a liar.” Billee found a tired woman sitting in the sand, a tousled baby in her lap. She dropped down by her. “Let me hold him, a little, won’t you, please?” The mother’s gaze rested on her face but an instant. “Guess I will,” she said. “I want to go somewhere and eat something. My husband hasn’t come yet.” Billee took the baby, whose great eyes questioned her. “Look, King, what beauty-brown eyes!” “Mind your dress,” he cautioned. “He’s pretty well messed up.” “I don’t care. I never had a chance to be a baby in the sand and smear my nose. I love him, King, just as he is.” She cuddled him up in her arms and hummed a lullaby, of the kind all women inherit and all babies understand. He was asleep when the mother came back. King’s eyes were in the sunset. One rose cloud had shaped itself into a cottage and there was a gate and a girl leaning over--then Billee woke him.