"She's new," he said, without moving his lips. "She's not of the sextette?" Tenafly shook his head. "She's dined here--below--I've seen her!" "Know her name?" Tenafly searched the pigeonholes of his memory. "I don't know her." "Find out what you can--soon!" "I will, sir!" He spoke a moment in low tones with the master, who had no evasions with him. At the end Sassoon said impatiently: "Can't be bothered ... see her for me and get a receipt." Every one wished to dance, whirling and bumping, none too restrained in their movements, the Royal Observer awkwardly enthusiastic, enjoying himself immoderately. Doré, a little apart, Harrigan Blood at her side, watched with eyes keen with curiosity. Busby, De Joncy, Lindaberry amused themselves hugely, caricaturing the eccentricities of the dance, their arms about their partners, clinging, bacchanalian, in their movements. Doré followed Lindaberry, frowning, feeling a blast of anger that set her sensitive little nostrils to quivering with scorn. The feeling was unreasonable. She did not know why he should disturb her more than another, and yet he did. He seemed so incongruous there; she could not associate his refinement, his courtesy, with Georgie Gwynne, who held him pressed in her arms, her head thrown back, her throat bared, laughing provokingly. She had come to see behind the scenes, and yet this one roused her fury. Besides, there was in his attitude a scornful note--a contemptuous valuation of the woman, of women in general, she felt, as if he were thus proclaiming: "See, this is all they are worth!" She began to glance at the door, counting the minutes. Judge Massingale came to her side. "Dance?" "I turned my ankle this morning." "You don't want to!" "No!" He began to dance with Adèle Vickers, but not as the others, not with the same immoderate abandon. She noted this swiftly. At last, in a pause between the dances, to Doré's relief, a footman, entering, announced: "Miss Baxter's car is waiting." It was an effect she had carefully planned, taking a full half-hour to lead Stacey Van Loan to an innocent participation. A group came up, protesting, acclaiming the discovery of her name--as she had wished. "Oho! Miss Baxter, is it?" "We won't let you go!" "The fun's just beginning!" "My chauffeur can wait!" said Doré superbly, perceiving the danger of an open retreat before this over-excited group. Her curiosity was satisfied. She began to foresee what she did not wish to witness, ugliness appearing from behind the carnival mask of laughter. She began to glance apprehensively at Harrigan Blood, who clung to her side, wondering how she could elude him. Then, as the group of protestants broke up, Sassoon, advancing deliberately, in that silken effeminate voice that expected no refusal, said abruptly: "Miss Baxter, where do you live?"