Judge and Mrs. Erastus Walbridge’s handsome residence was _en fête_ when Pauline and Joe finally put in an appearance. The spacious rooms and hallways, festooned with Southern smilax in which were twined tiny iridescent electric lights, and hung with holly, mistletoe, and poinsettia, resembled fairyland. Mrs. Walbridge’s Christmas Eve dances had become a time-honored institution, and invitations to them were eagerly sought. She insisted that her guests should arrive at half-past nine and depart at two o’clock; such early dancing hours being kept at no other house in the National Capital. As she always provided the best of music and the most delicious of suppers, society invariably abided by her rulings, although sometimes enjoying a hearty laugh behind her back. Pauline did not linger in the dressing-room. Taking her cloak check, she hastened into the ballroom followed by Joe, who presented a remarkably immaculate appearance considering the short time consumed in changing his clothes. Mrs. Walbridge, conscious that the hour was getting late, received them with some stiffness, but Pauline’s profuse apologies for their tardy arrival caused her to unbend. “I think you already know Baron von Valkenberg,” she said, as the diplomat joined them, and in a second more Pauline was dancing with him. Joe, left to himself, for Mrs. Walbridge’s attention was instantly claimed by an older guest, saw Marjorie Langdon standing talking to several friends and crossed the room to speak to her. He did not share his family’s antipathy for Marjorie. It took him several moments to dodge the dancers as he progressed across the floor, and just as he reached Marjorie’s side Chichester Barnard came up. “No you don’t, Barnard,” he exclaimed. “First come, first served. My dance, Miss Langdon?” “I beg your pardon, I have a prior claim,” protested Barnard. “Quite wrong,” smiled Marjorie. “I am promised to nobody for this dance.” “Then I’m Johnny on the spot,” chimed in Joe, triumphantly. “Come,” and placing his arm about Marjorie’s waist, the two danced down the room. Refusing to meet the eyes of several wallflowers who were looking hopefully in his direction, Barnard idly watched the gay throng, as the waxed floor swayed under the tread of flying feet. “The popular Mr. Barnard not dancing!” exclaimed a voice over his shoulder, and turning he found Pauline standing at his elbow. “I was looking for you,” he answered readily, “but I thought I saw you with von Valkenberg....” “He was sent for to go to the telephone,” she pouted prettily, “and had to excuse himself.” “Let me take his place,” and clasping her hand they joined the dancers. When the music stopped Barnard secured a glass of punch for his partner and himself, and they strolled about, at last going into what Mrs. Walbridge called her “tea-room.” “Isn’t that Joe and Miss Langdon sitting over there?” questioned Pauline, indicating a deep window recess partly screened from the general view by tall palms.