he pianist struck a chord, and the children lined up, the girls on one
side, the boys on the other, a long line, with Mrs. Van Buren in the
center. Another chord, rather a long one. Mrs. Van Buren curtsied to
the girls. The line dipped, wavered, recovered itself. Mrs. Van Buren
turned. Another chord. The boys bent, rather too much, from the waist,
while Mrs. Van Buren swept another deep curtsey. The music now, very
definite as to time. Glide and short step to the right. Glide and short
step to the left. Dancing school had commenced. Outside were long lines
of motors waiting. The governesses chatted, and sometimes embroidered.
Mademoiselle tatted.

Alton Denslow was generally known as Pink, but the origin of the name
was shrouded in mystery. As "Pink" he had learned to waltz at the
dancing class, at a time when he was more attentive to the step than to
the music that accompanied it. As Pink Denslow he had played on a scrub
team at Harvard, and got two broken ribs for his trouble, and as Pink
he now paid intermittent visits to the Denslow Bank, between the hunting
season in October and polo at eastern fields and in California. At
twenty-three he was still the boy of the dancing class, very careful at
parties to ask his hostess to dance, and not noticeably upset when she
did, having arranged to be cut in on at the end of the second round.

Pink could not remember when he had not been in love with Lily Cardew.
There had been other girls, of course, times when Lily seemed far away
from Cambridge, and some other fair charmer was near. But he had always
known there was only Lily. Once or twice he would have become
engaged, had it not been for that. He was a blond boy, squarely built,
good-looking without being handsome, and on rainy Sundays when there
was no golf he went quite cheerfully to St. Peter's with his mother, and
watched a pretty girl in the choir.

He wished at those times that he could sing.

A pleasant cumberer of the earth, he had wrapped his talents in a napkin
and buried them by the wayside, and promptly forgotten where they were.
He was to find them later on, however, not particularly rusty, and he
increased them rather considerably before he got through.

It was this pleasant cumberer of the earth, then, who on the morning
after Lily's return, stopped his car before the Cardew house and got
out. Immediately following his descent he turned, took a square white
box from the car, ascended the steps, settled