He was in a panic. But the hostess, instead of calling for the police, gushed, "_So_ glad you _could_ come!" combining a kittenish mechanical smile for him with a glance over his shoulder at the temporary butler. "I want you to meet Miss Moeller, Mr.--uh--Mr----" "I knew you'd forget it!" Carl was brotherly and protecting in his manner. "Ericson, Oscar Ericson." "Oh, of course. How stupid of me! Miss Moeller, want you to meet Mr. Oscar Ericson--you know----" "S' happy meet you, Miss Mmmmmmm," said Carl, tremendously well-bred in manner. "Can we possibly go over and be clever in a corner, do you think?" He had heard Colonel Haviland say that, but his manner gave it no quotation-marks. Presumably he talked to Miss Moeller about something usual--the snow or the party or Owen Johnson's novels. Presumably Miss Moeller had eyes to look into and banalities to look away from. Presumably there was something in the room besides people and talk and rugs hung over the bookcases. But Carl never knew. He was looking for Ruth. He did not see her. Within ten minutes he had manoeuvered himself free of Miss Moeller and was searching for Ruth, his nerves quivering amazingly with the fear that she might already have gone. How would he ever find her? He could scarce ask the hostess, "Say, where's Ruth?" She was nowhere in the fog of people in the big room.... If he could find even Olive.... Strolling, nodding to perfectly strange people who agreeably nodded back under the mistaken impression that they were glad to see him, he systematically checked up all the groups. Ruth was not among the punch-table devotees, who were being humorous and amorous over cigarettes; not among the Caustic Wits exclusively assembled in a corner; not among the shy sisters aligned on the davenport and wondering why they had come; not in the general maelstrom in the center of the room. He stopped calmly to greet the hostess again, remarking, "You look so beautifully sophisticated to-night," and listened suavely to her fluttering remarks. He was the picture of the cynical cityman who has to be nowhere at no especial time. But he was not cynical. He had to find Ruth! He escaped and, between the main room and the dining-room, penetrated a small den filled with witty young men, old stories, cigarette-smoke, and siphons. Then he charged into the dining-room, where there were candles and plate much like silver--and Ruth and Olive at the farther end. CHAPTER XXVIII He wanted to run forward, take their hands, cry, "At last!" He seemed to hear his voice wording it. But, not glancing at them again, he established himself on a chair by the doorway between the two rooms.