olings, I reckon. He's led more cotillions than I've got hairs
on my head."

"I'd hardly limit it to that," said the major, chortling at the easy
thrust. "And after all, even folderolings have their use."

"Who said they hadn't? If people choose to make whirling dervishes of
themselves, they at least can reflect that it's better for their livers
than cane-bottom chairs. Though that's about all you can say in favor of
the modern ball."

"Pshaw!" said the major. "I remember a time when you used to rig out in
a claw-hammer and

"'Dance all night till broad daylight
And go home with the gyrls in the morning,'

"with the bravest of us. Used to like it, too."

"I got over it before I was old enough to make myself a butt of
hilarity," the doctor retorted. "I see by the papers they've invented a
new dance called the grizzly bear. I believe there's another named the
yip-kyoodle. I hope you've got 'em down pat to show the young folks
to-night, Bristow."

The major got up with some irritation. "Southall," he said, "sometimes
I'm tempted to think your remarks verge upon the personal. You don't
have to watch me dance if you don't choose to."

"No, thank God," muttered the doctor. "I prefer to remember you when
you still preserved a trace of dignity--twenty odd years ago."

"If dignity--" the major's blood was rising now,--"consists in your
eternal tasteless bickerings, I want none of it. What on earth do you
do it for? You had some friends once."

"Friends!" snapped the other, "the fewer I have the better!"

The major clapped on his straw hat angrily, strode to the door, and
opened it. But on the threshold he stopped, and presently shut it,
turned back slowly and resumed his chair. The doctor was relighting his
cigar, but an odd furtive look had slipped to his face, and the hand
that struck the match was unsteady.

For a time both sat smoking, at first in silence, then talking in a
desultory way on indifferent topics. Finally the major rose and tossed
his cigar into the empty grate.

"I'll be off now," he said. "I must be on the field before the others."

As he went down the steps a carriage, drawn by a pair of dancing grays,
plunged past. "Who are those people with the Chalmers, I wonder," said
the doctor. "They're strangers here."

The major peered. "Oh," he said, over his shoulder, "I forgot to tell
you. That's Silas Fargo, the railroad president from New York, and his
daughter Katharine. His private