THE weeks went, and the time neared when dancing at the Institute would end for the season—would end with a bang and a dazzle in a “long night,” when dancing would be kept up shamelessly till something nearer one o’clock than twelve. Johnny counted, first the weeks, then the days, and last the hours. Not because of the dancing, although that was amusing, but because he was to take Nora Sansom with his double ticket. For herself, she may have counted days and hours, or may not; but true it was that she sat up late on several nights, with nun’s veiling and ribbons, making a dress for the occasion—the first fine frock that had been hers. And every night she hid it carefully. Each dressmaking-class night of late it had been Johnny’s privilege to guard her home-going to the end of that second street—never farther. Twice she had come to dancing, and by that small practice was already Johnny’s superior at the exercise; for a big-shouldered novice of eleven stone two is a slower pupil than any girl of eighteen in the world. And they were very welcome one to the other, and acquaintance bettered day by day. Once Johnny ventured a question about the adventure of the morning, now more than three years ago, but learned little from Miss Sansom’s answer. The lady who was ill was her relation, she said, and she found her; and then she talked of something else. And so till the evening before the “long night.” It was the rule at the Institute to honour the long night with gloves and white ties, by way of compromise with evening dress; and Johnny bought his gloves with discretion and selected his tie with care. Then he went to the Institute, took a turn or two at the bars, climbed up the rope, and gave another member a lesson with the gloves. Thus refreshed, he dressed himself in his walking clothes, making sure that the tie and the gloves were safe in his pocket, and set out for home. There was no dressmaking class that night, so that he need not wait. But outside and plainly waiting for him, was Nora Sansom herself. Johnny thought she had been crying: as in fact she had. “Oh, Mr. May,” she said. “I’m very sorry, but—I thought you might be here, and—and—I’m afraid I shan’t be able to come to-morrow!” “Not come! But—but why?” “I’m sorry—I’m very sorry, Mr. May; but I can’t tell you—really.” There was a quiver of the lip, and her voice was a little uneven, as though there were danger of more tears. But Johnny was not disappointed merely; he was also angry, and it was hard to conceal the fact. So he said nothing, but turned and walked a few steps by her side. “I—hope you won’t mind,” she pursued, uneasy at his silence. “I’m very much disappointed—very much indeed.” And it was plain that she was. “But there’ll be a good many there. And you’ll have plenty of partners.” This last she found a hard thing to say. “I don’t care how many’ll be there,” Johnny replied. “I shan’t go.”