r with an intoxicated man's enthusiasm.
"You certainly are sweet," said he. "The wine on your breath
is like flowers. Gosh, but I'm glad that husband came home!
Like me a little?"

"I'm so happy, I feel like standing up and screaming," declared she.

"Good idea," cried he. Whereupon he released a war whoop and
they both went off into a fit of hysterical laughter. When it
subsided he said, "I sized you up as a live wire the minute I
saw you. But you're even better than I thought. What are you
in such a good humor about?"

"You couldn't understand if I told you," replied she. "You'd
have to go and live where I've been living--live there as long
as I have."

"Convent?"

"Worse. Worse than a jail."

The ball proved as lively as they hoped. A select company from
the Tenderloin was attending, and the regulars were all of the
gayest crowd among the sons and daughters of artisans and small
merchants up and down the East Side. Not a few of the women
were extremely pretty. All, or almost all, were young, and
those who on inspection proved to be older than eighteen or
twenty were acting younger than the youngest. Everyone had
been drinking freely, and continued to drink. The orchestra
played continuously. The air was giddy with laughter and song.
Couples hugged and kissed in corners, and finally openly on the
dancing floor. For a while Susan and Howland danced together.
But soon they made friends with the crowd and danced with
whoever was nearest. Toward three in the morning it flashed
upon her that she had not even seen him for many a dance. She
looked round--searched for him--got a blond-bearded man in
evening dress to assist her.

"The last seen of your stout friend," this man finally
reported, "he was driving away in a cab with a large lady from
Broadway. He was asleep, but I guess she wasn't."

A sober thought winked into her whirling brain--he had warned
her to hold on tight, and she had lost her head--and her
opportunity. A bad start--a foolishly bad start. But out
winked the glimpse of sobriety and Susan laughed. "That's the
last I'll ever see of _him_," said she.

This seemed to give Blond-Beard no regrets. Said he: "Let's
you and I have a little supper. I'd call it breakfast, only
then we couldn't have champagne."

And they had supper--six at the table, all uproarious, Susan
with difficulty restrained from a skirt dance on the table up
and down among the dishes and bottles. It wa