"You've lost your faithful stenographer," was the first phrase of Mamise's that Davidge understood. "Why so?" he grumbled. "Because this is the life for me. I've been a heroine and a war-worker about as long as I can. I'm for the fleshpots and the cold-cream jars and the light fantastic. Aren't you going to dance with me any more?" "Just as you please," Davidge said, with a singularly boyish sulkiness, and wondered why Mamise laughed so mercilessly: "Of course I please." The music struck up an abandoned jig, but he danced with great dignity till his feet ran away with him. Then he made off with her again in one of his frenzies, and a laughter filled his whole being. She heard him growl something. "What did you say?" she said. "I said, 'Damn you!'" She laughed so heartily at this that she had to stop dancing for a moment. She astonished him by a brazen question: "Do you really love me as much as that?" "More," he groaned, and they bobbed and ducked and skipped as he muttered a wild anachronism: "If you don't marry me I'll murder you." "You're murdering me now. May I breathe, please?" He was furious at her evasion of so solemn a proposal. Yet she was so beautifully alive and aglow that he could not exactly hate her. But he said: "I won't ask you again. Next time you can ask me." "All right; that's a bet. I'll give you fair warning." And then that dance was over, and Mamise triumphant in all things. She was tumultuously hale and happy, and her lover loved her. To her that hath--for now, whom should Mamise see but Lady Clifton-Wyatt? Her heart ached with a reminiscent fear for a moment; then a malicious hope set it going again. Major Widdicombe claimed Mamise for the next dance, and extracted her from Davidge's possession. As they danced out, leaving Davidge stranded, Mamise noted that Lady C.-W. was regarding Davidge with a startled interest. The whirl of the dance carried her close to Lady Clifton-Wyatt, and she knew that Lady C.-W. had seen her. Broken glimpses revealed to her that Lady C.-W. was escorting her escort across the ballroom floor toward Davidge. She saw the brazen creature tap Davidge's elbow and smile, putting out her hand with coquetry. She saw her debarrass herself of her companion, a French officer whose exquisite horizon-blue uniform was amazingly crossed with the wound and service chevrons of three years' warfaring. Nevertheless, Lady Clifton-Wyatt dropped him for the civilian Davidge. Mamise, flitting here and there, saw that Davidge was being led to the punch-altar, thence to a lonely strip of chairs, where Lady C.-W. sat herself down and motioned him to drop anchor alongside. Mamise longed to be near enough to hear what she could guess: her enemy's artless prelude followed by gradual modulations to her main theme--Mamise's wicked record.