Then the coronal of ruby-sprinkled hair was seen shuttling rhythmically among the dancers; and such a glowing shuttle the eye of a spectator must follow. This pagan April with her flying grace in scant apple-green emerged from the other dancers as the star emerges from the other actors in a play; and only mothers of other girls could have failed to perceive that any stranger’s first question must inevitably be, “Who is _that?_” Mrs. Cromwell had no such perception;—her glance, a little annoyed, sought her daughter and easily found her. Anne was dancing with young Hobart Simms, long her most insignificant and humblest follower. Mrs. Cromwell thought of him as “one of the nice boys”; but she also thought of him as “poor little Hobart,” for only two things distinguished him, both unfortunate. His father had lately failed in business, so that of all the “nice boys,” Hobart was the poorest; but, what was more to the point in Mrs. Cromwell’s reflections just then, of all the “nice boys” he was the shortest. He was at least four inches shorter than Anne, and it seemed to the mother that the contrast in height made Anne look too large and somehow too placid. Mrs. Cromwell wanted Anne to be kind, but she decided to warn her against dancing with Hobart: there are contrasts that may bring even the most graceful within the danger of looking a little ridiculous. Anne was at her best when she danced with the tall and romantically dark Harrison Crisp; but unfortunately this delinquent had been discovered: he was the triumphing partner who had carried off the young person called Sallie. Mrs. Cromwell might have put it the other way, however: she might have looked upon the episode as the carrying off of young Crisp by this froward Sallie. Sallie’s mother appeared to take this view, herself. “Look at that!” she cried. “Look at the state she’s got that fellow in she’s dancing with! Look at the way he’s _looking_ at her, will you!” And again she gave utterance to the loud and excitedly triumphant laugh that not only offended the ears of Mrs. Cromwell but disquieted her more than she would have thought possible, half an hour earlier. It seemed to her that she had never before heard so offensive a laugh. “Did you ever see anything to beat it?” Sallie’s mother inquired hilariously. “He looks at her that way the whole time—except when she’s dancing with somebody else. Then he stands around and looks at her as if he had an awful pain! She’s got him so he won’t dance with anybody else. It’s a scream!” And here, in her mirthful excitement, she slapped the stout uncle’s knee; for Sallie’s mother made it evident that she was one of those who repeat their own youth in the youth of a daughter, and perhaps in a daughter’s career fulfil their own lost ambitions. She became more confidential, though her confidential air was only a gesture; she leaned toward her companions, but did not take the trouble to lower her voice.