assion flamed in his eyes. Farther and farther across the tiny
intervening table, nearer the woman's face, his own approached. The last
empty bottle, the thin-stemmed glasses, stood in his way, and he moved
them aside with his elbow. So near now was he that their breaths
mingled, and as the drone of his voice ceased, the music of the
orchestra, a waltz, flowed into the rift with its steady one-two-three.
He was motionless; but his eyes, intense blue eyes under long lashes,
were fixed absorbingly on hers.

It was the woman's turn to move. Gradually, gracefully, unconsciously,
her own face came forward toward his. Sparkling in the light, a jewelled
hand rested on the surface of the table. A tinge of crimson mounted the
long white neck, and colored it to the roots of her hair. The arteries
at the throat throbbed under the thin skin. Simultaneously, the opening
gate of the elevator clicked, and a man--another with that unmistakable
air of leisure--approached; but still she did not notice, did not hear.
Instead, with a sudden motion, heedless of surroundings, reckless of
spectators, her face crossed the gap intervening between her and her
companion; her lips touched his lips, caught fire with the contact, met
them again and again.

Watching, scarcely breathing, Florence saw the figure of the man come
closer. His eyes also were upon the pair. He caught their every motion;
but he did not hurry. On he came, leisurely, impassively, as though out
for a stroll. He stopped by their side, a darkening shadow with a
mask-like face. Instinctively the two glanced up. There was a crash of
glassware, as the tiny table lurched in the woman's hand--and they were
on their feet. A moment the three looked into each others' eyes, looked
deep and long; then together, without a word, they turned toward the
elevator. Again, droning monotonously, the car appeared and disappeared.
After them, vibrant, mocking, there beat the unvarying rhythm of the
waltz, one-two-three, one-two-three.

In the shadow, Florence Baker's face dropped into her hands. When at
last she glanced up another couple, likewise immaculate of attire,
likewise debonair and smiling, were seated at the little table. She
turned to her companion. His cigar was still glowing brightly. He had
not moved.

"I think I'll go home now, if you please," she said, and every trace of
animation had left her voice. "I'm rather tired."

The man roused himself. "It's early yet. There'll be vaude