“Well,” he said unhappily, “what’s fair for one ought to be fair for the other. If you’re dead set on being mean, go ahead.” “I suppose you will dance with her?” the storm tone was growing in Ivy’s voice. “I didn’t say I was going to.” “I know you. You never do anything I want.” “Oh, for the Lord’s sake let’s not spoil this with a row,” Robin pleaded. “You know darned well I love you too much to bother my head about any other girl. What’s wrong with May Sutherland more than any other girl here? You never asked me not to dance with Minnie Davis nor Bessie Santerre nor the school-teacher.” “I don’t like her. I don’t like the way she looked at you,” Ivy muttered sullenly. “Neither do I like the way Mark Steele looks at you, old girl,” Robin lowered his voice. “And he looks at you that way every time he’s around you. I never kicked about it before. I never acted like I wanted to put you in a glass case. I give you credit for havin’ sense about men.” “Aw, pouf!” There was an angry finality in Ivy’s exclamation. They finished the waltz in silence and it was not a particularly enjoyable Terpsichorean effort for Robin Tyler. When they sat down he tried to talk about different matters but Ivy confined herself to “yes” or “no” or an occasional sarcastic “you don’t say” until Robin gave up in despair. When the music began again Mark Steele slid across the floor and Ivy rose to dance with him. There was a defiant sidelong flicker in her eyes toward Robin as she got up. His first impulse was to go outside and smoke a cigarette. Robin was disturbed and uneasy and resentful. He knew that was no frame of mind for dancing. The night, the stars, and a cigarette would drive that mood away. Like a wounded animal Robin instinctively sought solitude when he was hurt. All his minor victories over whatever griefs and disappointment had come his way had been won by thinking it out alone, on the plains, in lonely camps, in night watches under a quiet sky. But as Robin rose to go his glance, taking in the room, fell upon May, sitting by her father. She was looking squarely at him. Moreover, from the other side of the room a large, ungainly stock hand from the head of Sand Creek, who had taken one drink too many before he came to the dance, was staring earnestly at May, evidently meditating descent, since she was the only woman not already on the floor. Robin’s mood changed in the flick of an eyelash. If Ivy wanted to--well, let her! He strode over to May. “I thought you were going to beat a retreat,” she murmured, when they were on the floor. “You aren’t shy, are you?” “You don’t know me very well,” Robin replied. “The only time you ever saw me I didn’t act very shy, did I?” “That was different,” she laughed. “A cow-puncher on a horse, on his own ground--that _is_ different. Some of these nice-looking boys act as if they weren’t sure it was safe to approach me.”