fa, shook out her reconstructed gown. When he
came over to where she stood, she laid her hand in his almost
solemnly, so overpowering had become the heavenly sequence of events.
For the rite of his hospitality had indeed become a rite to her. Never
before had she stood in awe, enthralled before such an altar as this
man's hearthstone. Never had she dreamed that he who so wondrously
served it could look at such an offering as hers--herself.

But the miracle had happened; altar and priest were accepting her; she
laid her hand, which trembled, in his; gave herself to his guidance
and to the celestial music, scarcely seeing, scarcely hearing his
voice.

"You dance delightfully," he was saying; "you're a born dancer,
Dulcie. I do it fairly well myself, and I ought to know."

He was really very much surprised. He was enjoying it immensely. When
the Victrola gave up the ghost he wound it again and came back to
resume. Under his suggestions and tutelage, they tried more intricate
steps, devious and ambitious, and Dulcie, unterrified by terpsichorean
complications, surmounted every one with his whispered coaching and
expert aid.

Now it came to a point where time was not for him. He was too
interested, enjoying it too genuinely.

Sometimes, when they paused to enable him to resurrect the defunct
music in the Victrola, they laughed at the Prophet, who sat upon the
ancient carved table, gravely surveying them. Sometimes they rested
because he thought she ought to--himself a trifle pumped--only to
find, to his amazement, that he need not be solicitous concerning
her.

* * * * *

A tall and ancient clock ringing midnight from clear, uncompromising
bells, brought Barres to himself.

"Good Lord!" he exclaimed, "this won't do! Dear child, I'm having a
wonderful time, but I've got to deliver you to your father!"

He drew her arm through his, laughingly pretending horror and haste;
she fled lightly along beside him as he whisked her through the hall
and down the stairs.

A candle burned on the desk. Soane sat there, asleep, and odorous of
alcohol, his flushed face buried in his arms.

But Soane was what is known as a "sob-souse"; never ugly in his cups,
merely inclined to weep over the immemorial wrongs of Ireland.

He woke up when Barres touched his shoulder, rubbed his swollen eyes
and black, curly head, gazed tragically at his daughter:

"G'wan to bed, ye little scut!" he said, getting t