oring approach. He looked pale and sulky.

She watched the two curiously. It seemed as if Belinda were going to
flout Morris also. But all at once she laughed, and pressed the mirror
against his upturned face. It was an odd gesture--almost like a caress.
Sophy thought that it displeased her because of something in it that she
could only characterise as "bad form." The next moment, she saw Morris
pull the girl rather roughly up into his arms, and waltz off with her.

A woman standing near by said spontaneously: "What a beautiful couple
they make!"

Yes. Sophy saw that, too. They were really quite wonderful floating
about to the sensuous rhythm in each other's arms. And all at once the
thought flashed to her: "How well they suit each other in every way!"
She stood gazing after them--singling them out from the whirling throng.
And her thought returned to her, enlarged, more distinct: "He ought to
have married her ... not me." The more she watched them, the more this
thought possessed her. Belinda would not have bored him with ideals.
Belinda would not have been bored herself by the "social stunt" as
exacted in New York and Newport. Belinda would have found that visit to
England "bully fun." She would have joined with him in "poking up the
highbrows." Nor would Belinda have objected to wine-bred love--of this,
somehow, Sophy felt particularly sure. Yes; in all things they would
have been fittingly mated. In age, in taste, in habits, in temperament.

Just here Loring himself passed by her on his way out of the room. The
waltz was over. He walked rapidly like a man towards some object. His
face was white and set and his eyes black. Sophy could not know that he
was drunk, not with wine but with Belinda. She slipped out into the hall
after him. Only some servants were standing about--not near them. She
detained him an instant, her hand on his arm. "Morris--don't be
vexed...." she said very low. "But don't take any more--just this
evening. Your cousin's first ball...."

He flung off her hand. His face worked. "For God's sake, go your way,"
he said, in a violent whisper, "and let me go mine! I'm tired of
squatting on the steps of the temple. Let up on me, for God's sake! _I_
don't interfere with _you_!..."

He was gone. And obeying a very natural if reprehensible impulse, he
drank a glass more of champagne than he had intended to before Sophy
spoke.

She turned and went quietly back towards the ballroom. To-morrow she
wou