d permitted himself to do.

"They were lovely--thank you so much for them." Iris spoke with a trifle
more warmth, and for a moment Anstice faltered in his purpose. "You are
coming to dinner presently, aren't you? Seven o'clock, because of the
dance."

"Miss Wayne, I'm sorry ..." the lie almost choked him, but he hurried
on, "... I can't get over to Greengates in time for dinner. I--I have a
call--into the country--and can't get back before eight or nine."

"Oh!" For a moment Iris was silent, and to the man at the other end of
the wire it seemed an eternity before she spoke again. Then: "I'm
sorry," said Iris gently. "But you will come to the dance afterwards?"

For a second Anstice wavered. It would be wiser to refuse, to allege
uncertainty, at least, to leave himself a loophole of escape did he find
it impossible to trust himself sufficiently to go. He opened his lips to
tell her he feared it might be difficult to get away, to prepare her for
his probable absence; and then:

"Of course I will come to the dance," he said steadily. "I would not
miss it for anything in the world!"

And he rang off hastily, fearing what he might be tempted to say if the
conversation were allowed to continue another moment.

* * * * *

It was nearly eleven o'clock when Anstice entered the hall of Greengates
that night; and by that time dancing was in full swing.

By an irony of Fate he had been called out when just on the point of
starting, and had obeyed the summons reluctantly enough.

The fact that his importunate patient was a tiny girl who was gasping
her baby life away in convulsions changed his reluctance into an
energetic desire to save the pretty little creature's life at any cost;
but all his skill was of no avail, and an hour after he entered the
house the child died.

Even then he could not find it in his heart to hurry away. The baby's
parents, who were young and sociable people, had been, like himself,
invited to the dance at Greengates--had, indeed, been ready to start
when the child was taken ill; and the contrast between the young
mother's frantic grief and her glittering ball-gown and jewels struck
Anstice as an almost unendurable irony.

When at last he was able to leave the stricken house, having done all in
his power to lighten the horror of the dreary hour, he was in no mood
for gaiety, and for a few moments he meditated sending a message to say
he was, after all, unable to