From time to time Beecher had managed to steal a glance in the direction of Nan Charters. She was sitting straight and unrelaxing, her eyes never leaving him, the lines of her mouth drawn a little tightly. When Emma Fornez had embraced him for the second time, Beecher, relaxing, perceived that Nan Charters turned her back and was conversing volubly, her shoulders rising and falling with little rapid movements, while her fan had the same nervous lashing that one sees in the uneasy panther. He was delighted at his success, at the revenge he had inflicted, at the superiority he had regained. The dances began again, but he did not dance. He held himself near the entrance, surveying the scene triumphantly. The experience was new to him; in the few years he had passed since college, he had been really out of the world. This game—the most fascinating of all the games of chance that can fascinate the gambler in each human being—the game between man and woman, came to him as a revelation, with a zest that was almost a discovery of his youth. All at once a feminine hand was laid on his arm and the voice of Nan Charters said: "Come outside—in the garden. I want to speak to you. Come quietly." [Illustration: "’Come outside—in the garden. I want to speak to you. Come quietly’"] Elated by a strange, almost cruel feeling of conquest, he followed her, with a last look back at the studio, at the littered bar, where Bo Lynch was still calling raucously for customers, at the silent intensity of the gamblers, whom he occasionally perceived between the flitting dresses of the dancers. In the middle of the floor Lorraine and Plunkett, stumbling and unsteady, were solemnly waltzing in each other’s arms—the specter of the morning forgotten. He closed the door softly and joined the young actress, who was waiting for him at some distance. "Can you take me home?" she asked directly. "Mr. Lorraine is in such a condition that I do not wish to go with him." "Certainly," he said, a feeling of protection replacing the first victorious perception of the fire of jealousy he had awakened in her. Gunther’s automobile was waiting, and they entered it. She did not say a word to him, and he, determined to force her to begin the conversation, waited with a pleased enjoyment until three-quarters of the journey had been accomplished. All at once she turned, and, taking him by the lapels of the coat, brought him toward her as one scolds a child. "Are you so angry because I didn’t see you this afternoon?" she said, smiling. The feminine defensive instinct of avoiding the issue by ambushing it with subterfuges, is equaled only by that instinct for attack which brushes aside all preliminaries and strikes directly. Beecher, taken off his guard, was a prey to two contrary impulses. Two replies, absolutely opposed and illogically joined, came to his lips. One brutal, still charged with the savageness of the evening, to say: