"So that's the way Minga's law works out," thought the girl slowly, "and the law of Minga's Bunch! She never even fancied this Tawny Troop. She took him away from another girl just for the fun of wearing his ring, and now Gertrude plays the same game. And Gertrude, because she works for it, has more power than Minga." Sard, leaning forward, looking into the ballroom, watched Minga and Dunce finish the dance; she saw them throw back their heads and laugh together. As Dunstan and his partner joined her, Sard rose. "Did you ask Mr. Shipman if he would join us?" she questioned her brother; "where is he?" But Watts, it seemed, could not be found, and to Sard's surprise Minga seemed nearly frenzied as she stood there trembling like a frightened child. "Sard," the girl urged breathlessly, "the music isn't very good, is it? Do you want to stay very much? Mr. Shipman has g-gone up the mountain; he wanted to--to turn in early on account of the case to-morrow. Sard," Minga gulped, "I think this is a stupid dance, don't you? Shall we go----Come on!" Minga's eyes had deep shadows under them; her face, under its not too well put on color, was piteous and woebegone. Dunstan chafed helplessly; no one had ever before seen Minga like this. It was insufferable that any stranger should see it. The youth tucked her arm under his and called up all his powers of gay loquacity. "You aren't all fed up, Minga--not you. Oh, you little worn out society dame! Music not jazzy enough, and she says 'the floor is gritty'; we'll have to fix that. What!" Dunstan, looking over his partner's head, raised his eyebrows at his sister. He nodded violently and said with deaf-mute's emphasized lips, "TAKE HER HOME!" Suddenly Sard understood. Gertrude's propaganda had had its deadly effect. Neither she nor Minga had their usual eager partners. The Tawny Troop stag line of "cut-ins" was being marshaled for Gertrude and one or two cronies. Curiously enough the "Minga Bunch," the devil-may-care, unrestrained crowd had turned and rended its gay little leader. The usual way had been taken. It was not a very new way; the way of gray-haired men and women for other more devoted and more highly inspired leaders, that of unanswerable personal slander. The girl stood there aghast. Then she smiled a little disdainfully and turned to her brother. "Will you drive us, Dunce?" she asked, "or shall we call a taxi?" "I had a dance with Cinny," said Dunce, "but she's sitting under the trees with that fellow with the spook glimmers; she's vamping him for his new tennis racket. I'll drive you. But," Dunce shut his teeth hard, "when I leave this bunch I leave it for good and all, you understand; you do too, Sard? You do too, Minga?"