Maxwell turned toward the elevators, half inclined after all not to see her. She had not been in such distress but that she could amuse herself after all. But that was Evadne, of course. He must expect that. Besides, she was doubtless angry at his delay. Maxwell got off at the gallery floor expecting to find the lady seated in one of the little quiet nooks overlooking the gay throng, but he made the rounds without finding her, and paused at the last door to look down on the moving, throbbing, colorful life below. The orchestra was beating out a popular bit of elevated jazz and the floor below was like a kaleidoscope as the couples wove their many colored patterns in and out among each other. Maxwell watched the dancers idly for a moment. He was not a dancer himself and not particularly interested in it. As he looked he was suddenly struck with the contrast between this scene and the quiet little home where he had spent the evening. How hard these people were trying to enjoy themselves, and how excited and restless and almost unhappy many of them looked. A group of ladies seated near the railing quite close to where he stood were discussing one of the couples on the floor. “She is disgusting,” said one, “I wonder who she is? How dare she come to a respectable place and dance in that way?” His eyes followed their glances and he easily singled out the two who were under their criticism. The man, a tall, dark, bizarre looking fellow he knew by sight, with money enough and family irreproachable enough to get away with anything in these days. But the woman! Why did there seem to be something familiar about her? Sleek, black hair wound closely about a small, languid head, lizard-like body inadequately sheathed in gold brocade, sparkle of jewels from lazy graceful feet. A break in the throng as some one went off the floor, and the two swept around facing him. The woman looked up and met his eyes. _It was Evadne!_ Something clicked and locked in his soul as if the machinery could not go on any longer without readjustment. He stood staring down at her, a growing wonder in his face, aware that she was looking at him and waving, aware that he was expected to smile. Instead he felt as if he were glaring. Was this the woman for whom he had spent two years of agony and struggle? This little empty faced creature with a smile upon her painted selfish mask? As he stood looking at her he was struck with a fleeting fancy that she resembled Clytie, poor featherbrained Clytie trying to exploit her own little self in the best way she knew, to play the game of life to her own best advantage. What was the difference between them?