Connie sniffed sympathetically, and then laughed at him. "You ought to have seen me yesterday, when poppa brought old Jack Hawley home with him. Poppa and Jack were partners in the 'Vesta,' and Mr. Hawley hadn't seen me since I was in pinafores. He called me 'little girl,' and wanted to know if I went to school, and how I was getting along!" Young Calmaine made a dumb show of applause. "_O umbræ Pygmæorum!_ Why wasn't I there to see! But you mustn't be too hard on old Jack. Half the people here who don't know you think you're an escaped schoolgirl; I've heard 'em. That's why I took pity on you and"-- "Teddy Calmaine, go away and find me somebody to talk to; a grown man, if you please. You make me tired." The boy got up with a quizzical grin on his smooth face. "I'll do it," he assented affably; "I'm no end good-natured, as you remarked a few minutes ago." When he was gone Connie forgot him, and fell into a muse, with the sights and sounds of the crush for its motive. From her perch on the stair she could look down on the shifting scene in the wide entrance hall, and through the archway beyond she had a glimpse of the circling figures in the ball-room swaying rhythmically to the music. It was all very delightful and joyous, and she enjoyed it with a zest which was yet undulled by satiety. None the less, the lavishness of it oppressed her, and a vague protest, born of other sights and scenes sharply contrasted but no less familiar to the daughter of Stephen Elliott, began to shape itself in her heart. How much suffering a bare tithe of the wealth blazing here in jewels on fair hands and arms and necks would alleviate. And how many hungry mouths might be filled from the groaning tables in the supper-room. Miss Elliott came out of her reverie reluctantly at the bidding of her late companion. Teddy Calmaine had obeyed her literally; and when she turned he was presenting the soldierly young man with the pointed beard and curling mustaches. "Miss Elliott, this is Mr. Jeffard. You said you wanted a"-- "An ice, Teddy," she cut in, with a look which was meant to be obliterative. "But you needn't mind it now. Will you have half a stair-step, Mr. Jeffard?" She made room for him, but he was mindful of his obligations. "Not if you will give me this waltz." She glanced at her card and looked up at him with a smile which was half pleading and half quizzical. "Must I?" He laughed and sat down beside her. "There is no 'must' about it. I was hoping you would refuse." "Oh, thank you." "For your sake rather than my own," he hastened to add. "I am a wretched dancer." "What a damaging admission!" "Is it? Do you know, I had hoped you wouldn't take that view of it."