before her and bowed unusually low. It was the man she had come with,
Peter Himmel. He was tall and humorous, with horned-rimmed glasses and
an air of attractive whimsicality. She suddenly rather disliked
him--probably because he had not succeeded in kissing her.

"Well," she began, "are you still furious at me?"

"Not at all."

She stepped forward and took his arm.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I don't know why I snapped out that
way. I'm in a bum humor to-night for some strange reason. I'm sorry."

"S'all right," he mumbled, "don't mention it."

He felt disagreeably embarrassed. Was she rubbing in the fact of his
late failure?

"It was a mistake," she continued, on the same consciously gentle key.
"We'll both forget it." For this he hated her.

A few minutes later they drifted out on the floor while the dozen
swaying, sighing members of the specially hired jazz orchestra
informed the crowded ballroom that "if a saxophone and me are left
alone why then two is com-pan-ee!"

A man with a mustache cut in.

"Hello," he began reprovingly. "You don't remember me."

"I can't just think of your name," she said lightly--"and I know you
so well."

"I met you up at--" His voice trailed disconsolately off as a man with
very fair hair cut in. Edith murmured a conventional "Thanks,
loads--cut in later," to the _inconnu_.

The very fair man insisted on shaking hands enthusiastically. She
placed him as one of the numerous Jims of her acquaintance--last name
a mystery. She remembered even that he had a peculiar rhythm in
dancing and found as they started that she was right.

"Going to be here long?" he breathed confidentially.

She leaned back and looked up at him.

"Couple of weeks."

"Where are you?"

"Biltmore. Call me up some day."

"I mean it," he assured her. "I will. We'll go to tea."

"So do I--Do."

A dark man cut in with intense formality.

"You don't remember me, do you?" he said gravely.

"I should say I do. Your name's Harlan."

"No-ope. Barlow."

"Well, I knew there were two syllables anyway. You're the boy that
played the ukulele so well up at Howard Marshall's house party.

"I played--but not--"

A man with prominent teeth cut in. Edith inhaled a slight cloud of
whiskey. She liked men to have had something to drink; they were so
much more cheerful, and appreciative and complimentary--much easier to
talk to.

"My name's Dean, Philip Dean," he said cheerfully. "You don't remember