in
reply to her note telling of our engagement."

"Never got it," said Hal promptly. "And I've wondered why she dropped me
so unaccountably. It's rather luck for me, you know," he added, smiling,
"to find friends ready-made in a strange town."

"Oh, you'll make friends enough," declared Mrs. Willard. "The present
matter is to make acquaintances. Come and dance this dance out with me
and then I'll take you about and introduce you. Are you as good a dancer
as you used to be?"

Hal was, and something more. And in his hostess he had one of the best
partners in Worthington. Cleverly she had judged that the "Boston" with
her, if he were proficient, would be the strongest recommendation to the
buds of the place. And, indeed, before they had gone twice about the
floor, many curious and interested eyes were turned upon them. Not the
least interested were those of Miss Elliot, who privately decided, over
a full and overflowing programme, that she would advance her recovery to
one dance before the supper announcement.

"You're going to be a social success, Hal," whispered his partner. "I
feel it. And _where_ did you learn that delightful swing after the dip?"

"Picked it up on shipboard. But I shan't have much time for gayeties.
You see, I've become a workingman."

"Tell me about it to-morrow. You're to dine with us; quite _en famille_.
You _must_ like Festus, Hal."

"I should think that would be easy."

"It is. He is just the finest, cleanest, straightest human being in the
world," she said soberly. "Now, come away and meet a million people."

So late was it that most of the girls had no vacancies on their
programmes. But Jeannette Willard was both a diplomat and a bit of a
despot, socially, and several of the young eligibles relinquished, with
surprisingly good grace, so Hal felt, their partners, in favor of the
newcomer. He did not then know the tradition of Worthington's best set,
that hospitality to a stranger well vouched for should be the common
concern of all. Very pleasant and warming he found this atmosphere,
after his years abroad, with its happy, well-bred frankness, its open
comradeship, and obvious, "first-name" intimacies. But though every one
he met seemed ready to extend to him, as a friend of the Willards, a
ready welcome, he could not but feel himself an outsider, and at the
conclusion of a dance he drew back into a side passage, to watch for a
time.

Borne on a draught of air from some invisibly op