The Roadside Inn was a brown mockery of Elizabethan architecture, about thirty miles out of the city on a good road. The door opened invitingly on a long low room full of chintz-covered chairs and wicker tables and at this time of year there was always a good open fire to welcome any comers. Back of that a dining room and, parallel with the two, a long dance room, where three enforcedly gay negroes pounded out melodies in jungle time hour after hour every evening. Upstairs there were half a dozen small bed rooms for transient automobilists who wanted to stay in the country for some reason or other or whose cars had broken down. The place was on the fence between decency and shadowy repute. It was frequented by people of all kinds, people who were respectable and people suspected of not being so. The landlady ignored any distinctions. She had made the place into a well-paying institution, had put its decoration into the hands of a good architect with whom she always quarreled about his charges and she asked no questions if her customers paid their bills. Probably she saw no difference between those of her guests who were of one kind and those of another. They all danced in much the same manner, were equally noisy, equally critical of the extremely good food and that was as far as her contact or comment went. If the food had not been so good, the place would have suffered in patronage, but that was unfailing. The cook was ready now at five minutes’ notice to concoct chicken a la king and make coffee for the Brownley party and as they came back from the dance room after having tried out the floor and the music, their supper was ready. Freda had not acquitted herself badly there either. Without having all the tricks of the Brownleys, she had a grace and sense of rhythm which helped her to adapt herself. Besides she had the first dance with Ted. He held her close, hardly looking at her. That was his way in dancing. “You must be very gay in Mohawk,” said Barbara when they were all at the table in the dining room again. The edge of her malice was lost on Freda. “No--not at all. Why?” “You seem very experienced.” A little glimmer of amusement came into Freda’s eyes. “Well--not first hand experience. We read--we go to moving pictures.” “I suppose lots of people are picking up ideas from the moving pictures,” Barbara commented carelessly. One of the Bates boys was drawing something from his pocket. Barbara looked at it indifferently, Allie with a frown of annoyance. “Didn’t I tell you, Tony, to cut that stuff out?” “We’ll all be cutting it out soon enough,” said Tony. “Won’t be any. This is all right. Tapped father’s supply. A taste for every one and a swallow for me.” He was a sallow thin young person whom the sight of his own flask seemed to have waked into sudden joviality. “I don’t want any,” said Allie. “Don’t waste it.” Then as Tony Bates ignored her protest, she drained her glass accustomedly.