fetch and carry, dance or walk,
go or come. At that moment there was no woman in the city for whom he
would undergo the boredom and the bruising and the dementia of such a
place as the one to which she had drawn him. He was not a provincial
who imagined that it was the smart thing to attend this dull orgy and
struggle on a polished floor packed as in a sardine tin. Years ago he
had outgrown cabaret mania and recovered from the fascination of
syncopation. And yet here he was, once more, against all his
fastidiousness, playing the out-of-town lad to a girl who took
everything and gave nothing in return. It was absurd, fantastic. He was
Gilbert Palgrave, the man who picked and chose, for whose attentions
many women would give their ears, who stood in satirical aloofness from
the general ruck; and as he held Joan in his arms and made sporadic
efforts to dance whenever there was a few inches of room in which to do
so, using all his ingenuity to dodge the menace of the elbows and feet
of people who pushed and forced as though they were in a subway crush,
he told himself that he would make it his business from that moment
onward to lay siege to Joan, apply to her all his well-proved gifts of
attraction and eventually make her pay his price for services rendered.

He had just arrived at this cold-blooded determination when, to his
complete astonishment and annoyance, a strong, muscular form thrust
itself roughly between himself and Joan and swept her away.

III

"Marty!" cried Joan.

There was a curious glint in Martin's gray eyes, like the flash of
steel in front of a window. His jaw was set, and his face strangely
white.

"You said you were going to bed."

"I was going to bed, Marty dear."

"What are you doing here, then?"

"I changed my mind, old boy, and went out to dinner."

"Chucked me in favor of Palgrave."

"No, I didn't."

"What then?"

"He rang up after you'd gone; and going to bed like an old crock seemed
silly and feeble, and so I dressed and went out."

"Why with that rotter Palgrave?"

"Why not? And why rotter?"

"You don't answer my question!"

"Have I got to answer your question?"

"You're my wife, although you don't seem to know it; and I object to
Pargrave."

"I can't help that, Marty. I like him, you see, and humble little
person as I am, I can't be expected to turn my back on every one except
the men you choose for me."

"I don't choose any men for you. I want you for mysel