"Yes. I've been going to the dogs, absolutely to the dogs. I had to pull up. . . . I didn't know you knew Logan; but, of course, as he's so thick with Kühler----!" "I met him for the first time to-night. What do you think of his work?" "Flashy!" said Mitchell. "Very flashy. . . . Will you let me come and see you again?" "I'd rather not, if you don't mind." "Why do you dislike me so much?" "I don't dislike you. I can't trust you not to be silly." "Gawd! I bet I'm not half so silly as Kühler!" "He is never silly!" "Ah! Now you're offended!" She turned away from him and refused to speak again. His half-flirtatious, half-patronizing manner offended her deeply, and was far more of an affront to her than Logan's almost open scorn of her as a little bread-and-butter miss. She wished Mendel would leave the pianola, but he was enthralled and could not tear himself away. He played the same tune over and over again, or went straight from one to another, swaying to and fro, beating time with his hands, swinging his head up and down. Mitchell went very red in the face and slipped away. Presently she saw him dancing with Oliver. After a few moments she found Logan by her side, and he said kindly:-- "I'm afraid you are not enjoying yourself much." "Oh yes!" she gasped, in a frightened voice. "I was thinking you were not used to this kind of thing." "Oh yes! I often go to parties in people's studios." "I remember, I saw you at the Merlin's Cave one night." "Yes, I remember. I didn't enjoy that a bit. It all seemed such a sham." "So it was," said Logan. "So is most of this. These people aren't really wicked, though they like to pretend they are. I don't dance myself. I'm too clumsy. Clog-dancing I can do, but not dancing with anybody else. . . . But perhaps I am keeping you----?" "Oh no! I'm very happy looking on." "Kühler's worth watching, isn't he?" This was said with such insolent meaning that Morrison wilted like a sensitive plant. She managed to gasp out "Yes," and went on asking wild, pointless questions, with her thoughts whirling far removed from her words. Why were all these people so impertinent, with their trick of plunging into intimate life without waiting for intimacy? She felt that in a moment Logan would be telling her all about himself and Oliver by way of luring her on to discuss Mendel. That she had no intention of doing, with him or with any one else. "She's just a shy little fool," thought Logan, "and hopelessly, hopelessly young." "I'm unhappy!" thought Morrison, and it seemed to her foolish and mean to be so. Her loyalty resented her weakness. She owed it to Mendel to enjoy herself and to share as far as she could his friends. But there was in the atmosphere of that gathering something that repelled her and roused the fighting quality in her, something indecent, something that hurt her as the picture of the flayed man in the anatomy book hurt her. Mendel was playing a wild rag-time tune.