“Where are you going?” she asked, almost regretfully. “To the office to work on political business--dozens and dozens of letters to answer. Then I'm coming back for my waltz with you. I sha'n't fail.” And as he put on his hat and threaded his way through the whirling mass of dancers down to the street, he recalled with something of a shock that not once in their talk had he even _thought_ of his rival. He slowed up in the darkness and leaned against a wall. There was a strange sinking of his heart as he faced the grim reality that stretched out drearily before him. She was, no doubt, to be the wife of another man. He had lost her. She was not for him, though there in the glare of the ballroom, amid the sensuous strains of music, in the perfume of the flowers dying in her service, she had seemed as close to him in heart, soul, and sympathy as the night he and she-- He had reached his office, a little one-story brick building in the row of lawyers' offices on the side street leading from the post-office to the courthouse, and he unlocked the door and went in and lighted the little murky lamp on his desk and pulled down a package of unanswered letters. Yes, he must work--work with that awful pain in his breast, the dry, tightening sensation in his throat, the maddening vision of her dazzling beauty and grace and sweetness before him. He dipped his pen, drew the paper towards him, and began to write: “My dear Sir,--In receiving the cordial assurances of your support in the campaign before me, I desire to thank you most heartily and to--” He laid the pen down and leaned back. “I can't do it, at least not to-night,” he said. “Not while she is there looking like that and with my waltz to come, and yet it must be done. I've lost her, and I am only making it harder to bear. Yes, I must work--work!” The pen went into the ink again. On the still night air came the strains of music, the mellow, sing-song voice of the figure-caller in the “square” dance, the whir and patter of many feet. CHAPTER IX. [Illustration: 9089] EAVING Carson Dwight, Wade Tingle, and Bob Smith chatting about the ball in the den the next morning, Garner went to the office, bit off a chew of tobacco, and plunged into work with a vigor which indicated that he was almost ashamed of his departure from his beaten track into the unusual fields of social gayety. He still wore the upright collar and white necktie of the night before, but the hitherto carefully guarded expanse of shirt-front was already in imminent danger of losing all that had once recommended it as a presentable garment.