The young lady at the piano crashed to a brief vacation. The chatter, following a perfunctory applause, rose gratefully. "Fine! Fine!" Blodgett roared. "Your next stop ought to be Carnegie Hall." "She ought to play in a hall," someone murmured unkindly. George retreated, relieved that Blodgett wasn't with Sylvia; and a little later he found Dalrymple in the smoking-room sipping whiskey-and-soda between erratic shots at billiards. Wandel was at the table most of the time, counting long strings with easy precision. "What's up, great man?" he wanted to know. Dalrymple, too, glanced curiously at George over his glass. "Nothing exceptional that I know of," George snapped and left the room. It added to his anger that his mind should let through its discontent. At least Sylvia wasn't with Blodgett or Dalrymple, and he tried to tell himself his jealousy was too hasty. All the eligible men weren't gathered in this house. He wandered from room to room, always seeking Sylvia. Where could she have gone? He met guests fleeing from drawing-room to library, as if driven by the tangled furies of a Hungarian dance. "Will that girl never stop playing?" he thought. Betty came up to him. "Talk to me, George." He found himself reluctant, but two tables of bridge were forming, and Betty didn't care to play. Lambert did, and sat down. George followed Betty to a window seat, telling himself she wanted him only because Lambert was for the time, lost to her. "Now," she said, directly, "what is it, George?" "What's what?" he asked with an attempt at good-humour. Her question had made him uneasy, since it suggested that she had observed the trouble he was endeavouring to bury. Would he never learn to repress as Goodhue did? But even Goodhue, he recalled, had failed to hide an acute suffering at a football game; and this game was infinitely bigger, and the point he had just lost vastly more important than a fumbled ball. "You've changed," Betty was saying. "I'm a good judge, because I haven't really seen you for nearly a year. You've seemed--I scarcely know how to say it--unhappy?" "Why not tired?" he suggested, listlessly. "You may not know it, but I've been pretty hard at work." She nodded quickly. "I've heard a good deal from Lambert what you are doing, and something from Squibs and Mrs. Squibs. You haven't seen much of them, either. Do you mind if I say I think it makes them uneasy?" "Scold. I deserve it," he said. "But I've written." "I don't mean to scold," she smiled. "I only want to find out what makes you discontented, maybe ask if it's worth while wearing yourself out to get rich." "I don't know," he answered. "I think so." It was his first doubt. He looked at her moodily. "You're not one to draw the long bow, Betty. Honestly, aren't you a little cross with me on account of the Baillys?" "Not even on my own account."