d, that she would interpret always in a wrong
or unsafe manner? She, too, was restless.

That was the only possible explanation. From Blodgett she had sprung to
war-time fads. From those she had leaped at this convenient one which
tempted people to make sparkling and meaningless phrases.

"It doesn't strike you as at all amusing," he asked, "that you should be
red, that I should be conservative?"

She didn't answer. Blodgett swept them out to sea again.

Later in the evening, however, George repeated his question, and
demanded an answer. They had accomplished the farce of a rehearsal,
source of cumbersome jokes for Blodgett and the clergyman; of doubts and
dreary prospects for Mr. Alston, who had done his share as if submitting
to an undreamed-of punishment.

There was the key-ring joke. It must be a part of the curriculum of all
the theological seminaries. George acted up to it, promising to tie a
string around his finger, or to pin the circlet to his waistcoat.

"Or," Blodgett roared, "at a pinch you might use the ring of the wedding
bells."

George stared at him. How could the man, Sylvia within handgrasp, grin
and feed such a mood? It suddenly occurred to him that once more he was
reading Blodgett wrong, that the man was admirable, far more so than he
could be under an equal trial. Would he, a little later, be asked to
face such an ordeal?

With the departure of the clergyman a cloud of reaction descended upon
the party. Some yawns were scarcely stifled. Sporadic attempts to dance
to a victrola faded into dialogues carried on indifferently, lazily,
where the dancers had chanced to stop with the music. Mr. Alston had
relinquished Sylvia to George at the moment the record had stuttered
out. They were left at a distance from any other couple. George pointed
out a convenient chair, and she sat down and glanced about the room
indifferently.

"At dinner," George said, "I asked you if it didn't impress you as
strange that our social views should be what they are, and opposite."

She didn't answer.

"I mean," he went on, "that I should benefit by your alteration."

"How?" she asked, idly fingering a flower, not looking at him.

"I fancy," he said, "that you'll admit your chief objection to me has
always been my origin, my ridiculous position trotting watchfully behind
the most unsocial Miss Planter. Am I not right?"

"You are entirely wrong," she said, wearily. "That has never had
anything to do with my--my