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Harpe quickly demonstrated that she was easily the best dancer in the room, and there was no dearth of partners after the first awe of her had worn off, but her satisfaction in her night of triumph was not complete until Van Lennop's name was upon her programme. Essie Tisdale, busy elsewhere, had her first glimpse of the ballroom where Van Lennop claimed his dance.
Andy P. Symes, solemn and as stiffly erect as a ramrod, trying to manage her first train, and Van Lennop's lips curved upward ever so slightly, but his voice had the proper gravity when he replied: "Scarcely." She shot a quick look at him. "You don't like it," she asserted. Van Lennop smiled slightly at her keenness. "To be candid, I don't.
Harpe appeared with her hair curled and wearing a lingerie waist, the fact which roused the risibilities of her friends stirred in him a feeling which resembled the instinct of self-preservation. Van Lennop's brow contracted as he re-read the invitation in his room. "Confound it! I'm not ready to be discovered yet." Then he grinned, in spite of himself, at the hint in the corner "full dress."
The blind rage which made the room swing round was like the frenzy of insanity. Van Lennop's face went crimson and oaths that never had passed his lips came forth, choking-hot and inarticulate.
Harpe's uplifted eyes and blush and Van Lennop's answering smile. The glasses jingled upon the tray in her unsteady hand, but her little mouth shut in a red, straight line as she nerved herself for the ordeal of passing them.
"I soaked the knife home that time," she murmured, pinning on her stiff-brimmed Stetson before the mirror, but, mingled with her gratification was a slight feeling of uneasiness because she had gone farther than she had intended in mentioning Van Lennop's letter and boasting that it had been left for her.
That was curious, for he was always up when any of his guests were leaving on the early train. Van Lennop's decision must have been sudden. What could be the explanation? There was a letter propped against the lamp on a table behind the office desk and, as she surmised, it was addressed to Mr. Terriberry in Van Lennop's handwriting.
The half-burnt cigar stayed in the corner of Symes's mouth, his hands in his trousers pockets, and his grudging nod was an insult, the greater that a few steps on he lifted his hat with a sweeping bow to Mrs. Alva Jackson. Van Lennop's face reddened under its tan. "Does he do that often?" His voice was quiet, but there was a quaver in it. "Often," Essie Tisdale answered.
Harpe's appearance it had begun to dawn upon Crowheart that in holding aloof in unfriendly suspicion the loss had been theirs, for it was being borne in even upon their ignorance that Van Lennop's sphere was one in which they did not "belong." Dr.
"Not now; I'm a biscuit-shooter; I work and 'Society must draw the line somewhere." "Who said that?" Amazement was in Van Lennop's tone. "Mr. Symes said it to Mrs. Symes, Mrs. Symes said it to Mrs. Jackson, Mrs. Jackson said it to Mrs. Tutts, Mrs. Tutts said it to me." "Of whom?" "Of me." "But what society?" Van Lennop's face still wore a puzzled look. "Crowheart society."
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