Of a sudden her heart wrenched, and turned over as she realized what it was. He was pitiful and wretched, a little drunk, and miserably tired. “Oh--” she cried involuntarily. His eyes looked down at her. She saw suddenly that they were blood-streaked and rolling uncontrollably. “Gordon,” she murmured, “we’ll sit down; I want to sit down.” They were nearly in mid-floor, but she had seen two men start toward her from opposite sides of the room, so she halted, seized Gordon’s limp hand and led him bumping through the crowd, her mouth tight shut, her face a little pale under her rouge, her eyes trembling with tears. She found a place high up on the soft-carpeted stairs, and he sat down heavily beside her. “Well,” he began, staring at her unsteadily, “I certainly am glad to see you, Edith.” She looked at him without answering. The effect of this on her was immeasurable. For years she had seen men in various stages of intoxication, from uncles all the way down to chauffeurs, and her feelings had varied from amusement to disgust, but here for the first time she was seized with a new feeling--an unutterable horror. “Gordon,” she said accusingly and almost crying, “you look like the devil.” He nodded, “I’ve had trouble, Edith.” “Trouble?” “All sorts of trouble. Don’t you say anything to the family, but I’m all gone to pieces. I’m a mess, Edith.” His lower lip was sagging. He seemed scarcely to see her. “Can’t you--can’t you,” she hesitated, “can’t you tell me about it, Gordon? You know I’m always interested in you.” She bit her lip--she had intended to say something stronger, but found at the end that she couldn’t bring it out. Gordon shook his head dully. “I can’t tell you. You’re a good woman. I can’t tell a good woman the story.” “Rot,” she said, defiantly. “I think it’s a perfect insult to call any one a good woman in that way. It’s a slam. You’ve been drinking, Gordon.” “Thanks.” He inclined his head gravely. “Thanks for the information.” “Why do you drink?” “Because I’m so damn miserable.” “Do you think drinking’s going to make it any better?” “What you doing--trying to reform me?” “No; I’m trying to help you, Gordon. Can’t you tell me about it?” “I’m in an awful mess. Best thing you can do is to pretend not to know me.” “Why, Gordon?” “I’m sorry I cut in on you--its unfair to you. You’re pure woman--and all that sort of thing. Here, I’ll get some one else to dance with you.” He rose clumsily to his feet, but she reached up and pulled him down beside her on the stairs. “Here, Gordon. You’re ridiculous. You’re hurting me. You’re acting like a--like a crazy man--” “I admit it. I’m a little crazy. Something’s wrong with me, Edith. There’s something left me. It doesn’t matter.” “It does, tell me.”