Pushing unpleasant thoughts to one side, Marjorie surrendered herself wholly to the pleasure of the moment. The pressure of Duncan’s strong arm gave her a sense of protection which soothed her jagged nerves unutterably, and she danced almost without being conscious of the people around her. Duncan’s gaze sought her face so persistently that they had several narrow escapes from bad collisions. They were turning a corner near the entrance to the small ballroom when they caromed violently into a man who was striving to make his way down the room, and shot him against the side of one of the boxes. “I beg your pardon,” apologized Duncan and Marjorie in concert, and the stranger, recovering his equilibrium, stared fixedly at Duncan. “Nice way to treat old friends,” he began, but got no further. “Paul Potter! by all that’s glorious!” shouted Duncan, seizing his hand and wringing it hard. “Where did you drop from?” “New York, stopping with Judge and Mrs. Walbridge. I tried to telephone you”----he stopped out of breath. “Miss Langdon, let me present Dr. Paul Potter, of San Francisco,” broke in Duncan, and Marjorie found herself looking into the most piercing eyes she had ever seen in human head, as her hand was taken in a firm clasp. “Very glad to meet you, Miss Langdon,” said the physician cordially. “I’m sorry to have interrupted your dance.” “We were on the point of stopping----” she began. “Not so that I could notice it,” and Dr. Potter’s eyes twinkled. “I am afraid we were exceeding the speed limit,” acknowledged Duncan. “Come over to our box, Paul, and sit with us.” “I can’t, old man, I must be getting back to Mrs. Walbridge; she is anxious to go down to supper.” “Perhaps we can get a table together. Come on, I’ll ask Mrs. Walbridge, her box is near ours.” Marjorie accompanied the two men to the steps leading to the boxes, but on approaching the one occupied by Mrs. Walbridge she turned and addressed Duncan. “I won’t wait for you,” she said, “but will join Janet at once.” “Very well, I’ll be along in a minute,” and Marjorie hastened down the narrow aisle alone. Janet and Chichester Barnard were still sitting as close as the chairs permitted in the corner of the box, their heads almost touching as they whispered together, and Marjorie’s eyes narrowed as she took in the tableau. She had watched Janet dancing with Tom with a contented mind, and the last she had seen of Barnard he was dancing attendance on Mrs. Walbridge. “Well, good people, thinking of supper?” she inquired, and noticed with an odd sensation Janet’s flushed face and embarrassed manner as she turned to meet her. “Our thoughts are not so material,” protested Barnard easily. “N--no?” and the faint irony of her tone was not lost on Barnard’s keen susceptibilities. “Who was the little man walking down the room with you and Duncan, Marjorie?” questioned Janet hurriedly. “His face looked familiar.” “Dr. Potter, of San Francisco.”