And so, after a time, the banquet ended, very late—ended, indeed, when Polly Pendleton and her friend, laughing and kissing their hands—Polly with her violin tucked under her arm and her cloak over all—turned once more to the door of the crystal and gold room of the Williston banquet suite. Men rose and waved serviettes at them, shouted good-by, asked them to come again. Haddon himself walked with Polly Pendleton to the door, kissed her hand, bowed goodnight. As he turned back he saw standing, staring at him fixedly, the tall, white-faced figure of the mountaineer, whom he had utterly forgotten. The eyes of David Joslin were like coals. “Some girl, eh—what?” said Haddon admiringly to his uncouth friend. But Joslin made him no reply. What he had seen, what he had felt that night, was epochal, abysmal for him. He had looked into her eyes. He had seen her face framed in her dark hair—had caught the very fragrance of her hair itself. He was mad. A motor car stood below, waiting for the popular team of Pendleton and Stanton. It whirled them now far uptown, to the little buffet flat which made their home. Nina, matter-of-fact as usual, busied herself about her preparations for the close of the day’s work. But, singularly enough, Polly, usually riante and active to the very last moment of the day, sat, cigarette in hand, silent, somewhat triste. “What’s the matter, Polly?—Why don’t you get ready?—I’m sleepy as an owl. What are you wolfing about?” “What makes you ask that, Nina?” “Well, it’s something.” Silence for a time, and then Polly spoke. “How do you think it went to-night, Nina?” “Well, all I’ve got to say,” replied that worthy young woman, “if it went this well about one or two more nights a week or a month, we could retire and live along the Sound like ladies the rest of our lives.” “I wish it was all back,” said Polly Pendleton, somberly. “What do you mean?” “Why, the money.” “Well, of all _things_!” exclaimed Nina Stanton, staring at her partner. “What’s the matter with you, Polly? Have you gone crazy? What’s set _you_ thinking this way? Of all _things_!” “Well, it was that man, maybe. He mighty near queered me. It’s always a man, you know—a girl can’t get away from that.” Nina still looked at her in wonderment. “You’re out of your head, kid,” said she. “If anyone in little old New York ought to be happy to-night, it’s you, sitting right there grouching like you are. They didn’t see me—I wasn’t there at all. You were the whole works. I hate to take the money from you—and I wouldn’t if I didn’t know you’d only spend it. I have to watch you like a mother, kid.” But Polly sat, shaking her head in somber discontent, the little blue rings of her cigarette rising undisturbed before her. “Who was he, Nina?” she asked after a time. “Who was who? The big bald-face guy down the table?—that was Rankin of Rankin and Swan. He acted like a good sport. As for Jimmy Haddon, he must have chipped in fifty, anyways.”