Some of the more ardent spirits, impatient for the crowd to thin out, were whirling about, clearing an expanding circle by force of their revolving attacks. In a moment they were moving among the dancers. Mrs. Kildair danced remarkably well. In this lithe body, so pliant and yet so inspired with the vertigo of the waltz, Beecher was again aware of the strange excitement that seemed to animate her whole being, and continued to ask himself the cause of such an unusual emotion. From time to time, the light fingers on his arms contracted imperiously, urging him to a wilder measure. He had a strange sensation of mystery and flight, as though he were no longer dancing, but whirling around with her in his arms, each striving, in the frantic flight, to conquer the other. The dance ended. The spectators burst into applause. Mrs. Kildair, half opening her eyes, thanked him with a grateful smile. He walked away with her on his arm, agitated and troubled. What all the brilliance of Emma Fornez had not been able to accomplish, one touch of Rita Kildair had effected. "I’ve lots of things to ask you," he said hurriedly, remembering McKenna’s suggestions. "No, no; not now—tomorrow," she said breathlessly, with the same caressing, half-veiled look. She gave him her hand in dismissal. He understood. The sensation which had come in the few moments of their vertigo had been too extraordinary to be dimmed by a descent to conversation. He left her, as always, aware of the artist in her, that never failed in the conception of a situation. "If I fall in love, it won’t be with Nan Charters," he said, following Mrs. Kildair with his eyes. Then, mindful of Emma Fornez’s advice, he joined Mrs. Fontaine, staying with her until she gave the signal to leave for those who had come to watch. With this departure, in which Mrs. Kildair joined, a certain element of restraint disappeared. The unmistakable rising note of loosened tongues freed from Anglo-Saxon restraint by the scientifically contrived punch, began to mount above the rhythmic beat of the music, which itself seemed suddenly possessed of a wilder abandon. At the roulette table the players, coldly concentrated, continued in strained attitudes, oblivious of all but the blinding green nap before them. Toward two o’clock the thirty or forty who still remained formed a circle, camping on the floor, Indian fashion, clamoring for songs and vaudeville turns. Jack Lindabury and Bo Lynch gave their celebrated take-off on grand opera. Elsie Ware, riotously acclaimed, accompanied by an hilarious chorus, sang her famous successes, turning to and fro coquetting with first one man and then another.