“Berenice,” observed Mrs. Carter, when in an intermission she came forward to where Cowperwood and she were sitting in the moonlight discussing New York and Kentucky social life, “haven’t you saved one dance for Mr. Cowperwood?” Cowperwood, with a momentary feeling of resentment, protested that he did not care to dance any more. Mrs. Carter, he observed to himself, was a fool. “I believe,” said her daughter, with a languid air, “that I am full up. I could break one engagement, though, somewhere.” “Not for me, though, please,” pleaded Cowperwood. “I don’t care to dance any more, thank you.” He almost hated her at the moment for a chilly cat. And yet he did not. “Why, Bevy, how you talk! I think you are acting very badly this evening.” “Please, please,” pleaded Cowperwood, quite sharply. “Not any more. I don’t care to dance any more.” Bevy looked at him oddly for a moment—a single thoughtful glance. “But I have a dance, though,” she pleaded, softly. “I was just teasing. Won’t you dance it with me? “I can’t refuse, of course,” replied Cowperwood, coldly. “It’s the next one,” she replied. They danced, but he scarcely softened to her at first, so angry was he. Somehow, because of all that had gone before, he felt stiff and ungainly. She had managed to break in upon his natural savoir faire—this chit of a girl. But as they went on through a second half the spirit of her dancing soul caught him, and he felt more at ease, quite rhythmic. She drew close and swept him into a strange unison with herself. “You dance beautifully,” he said. “I love it,” she replied. She was already of an agreeable height for him. It was soon over. “I wish you would take me where the ices are,” she said to Cowperwood. He led her, half amused, half disturbed at her attitude toward him. “You are having a pleasant time teasing me, aren’t you?” he asked. “I am only tired,” she replied. “The evening bores me. Really it does. I wish we were all home.” “We can go when you say, no doubt.” As they reached the ices, and she took one from his hand, she surveyed him with those cool, dull blue eyes of hers—eyes that had the flat quality of unglazed Dutch tiles. “I wish you would forgive me,” she said. “I was rude. I couldn’t help it. I am all out of sorts with myself.” “I hadn’t felt you were rude,” he observed, lying grandly, his mood toward her changing entirely. “Oh yes I was, and I hope you will forgive me. I sincerely wish you would.” “I do with all my heart—the little that there is to forgive.” He waited to take her back, and yielded her to a youth who was waiting. He watched her trip away in a dance, and eventually led her mother to the trap. Berenice was not with them on the home drive; some one else was bringing her. Cowperwood wondered when she would come, and where was her room, and whether she was really sorry, and— As he fell asleep Berenice Fleming and her slate-blue eyes were filling his mind completely. CHAPTER XLIII. The Planet Mars