She stirred uneasily, seemed about to rise, then evidently thought better of it. The orchestra resumed its labours. Many figures near by gravitated toward the ballroom, leaving them, indeed, in something very near seclusion. And she stayed to hear his questions, but she begged him not to ask them. "You and Lambert are friends. What you are both doing makes me want to think of that, makes me want to make concessions, but don't misunderstand, don't force me to quarrel with you until after this is over." He paid no attention to her. "I suppose the war made you realize I was right about Blodgett?" "You cannot talk about that." "Has the war shown you I was right about myself?" he went on. "Are you going to make my good resolutions impossible?" she asked. Over his shoulder George saw the men in khaki guiding pretty girls about the dance floor. The place was full of a heady concentration of pleasure that had a beautiful as well as a pitiful side. About him the atmosphere was frankly amorous, compounded of multiple desires of heart and mind which strained for fulfilment before it should be too late. For him Sylvia was a part of it--the greater part. It entered his senses as the delightful and faint perfume which reached him from her. It became ponderable in her dark hair; in her lips half parted; in her graceful pose as she bent toward him attentively; in her sudden movement of withdrawal, as if she had suddenly realized he would never give her her way. "Isn't it time," he asked, "that you forgot some of your childish pride and bad temper? Sylvia! When are you going to marry me?" Her laughter wasn't even, but she arose unhurriedly. She paused, indeed, and sank back on the arm of the chair. "So even now," she said, "it's to be quarrels or nothing." "Or everything," he corrected her. "I shall make you realize it somehow, some day. What's the use putting it off? Let's forget the ugly part of the past. Marry me before I go to France." He was asking her what he had accused Lambert of unjustifiably wanting Betty to do. All at once he understood Lambert's haste. He stretched out his hand to Sylvia. He meant it--with all his heart he meant it, but she answered him scornfully: "Is that your way of saying you love me?" The bitterness of many years revived in his mind, focusing on that question. If he should answer it impulsively she would be in a position to hurt him more than she had ever done. George Morton didn't dare take chances with his impulses, and the bitterness was in his voice when he answered: "You've never let me fancy myself at your feet in a sentimental fit." But it was difficult for him not to assume such an attitude: not to take her hand, both of her hands; not to draw her close. "If you'd only answer me----" he began. She stood up. "Just as when I first saw you!" she cried, angrily. She controlled herself. "You shan't force me to quarrel. Come in. Let us dance once." In a sense he put himself at her feet then.