that they might cross the formidable Landis, and as if the women feared
to be brought into too close comparison with Nelly Lebrun. She was,
indeed, a brilliant figure. She had eyes of the Creole duskiness, a
delicate olive skin, with a pastel coloring. The hand on the shoulder of
Landis was a thing of fairy beauty. And her eyes had that peculiar
quality of seeming to see everything, and rest on every face
particularly. So that, as she whirled toward Donnegan, he winced,
feeling that she had found him out among the shadows.

She had a glorious partner to set her off. And Donnegan saw bitterly
why Lou Macon could love him. Height without clumsiness, bulk and a
light foot at once, a fine head, well poised, blond hair and a Grecian
profile--such was Jack Landis. He wore a vest of fawn skin; his boots
were black in the foot and finished with the softest red leather for the
leg. And he had yellow buckskin trousers, laced in a Mexican fashion
with silver at the sides; a narrow belt, a long, red silk handkerchief
flying from behind his neck in cowboy fashion. So much flashing
splendor, even in that gay assembly, would have been childishly
conspicuous on another man. But in big Jack Landis there was patently a
great deal of the unaffected child. He was having a glorious time on
this evening, and his eye roved the room challenging admiration in a
manner that was amusing rather than offensive. He was so overflowingly
proud of having the prettiest girl in The Corner upon his arm and so
conscious of being himself probably the finest-looking man that he
escaped conceit, it might almost be said, by his very excess of it.

Upon this splendid individual, then, the obscure Donnegan bent his gaze.
He saw the dancers pause and scatter as the music ended, saw them drift
to the tables along the edges of the room, saw the scurry of waiters
hurrying drinks up in the interval, saw Nelly Lebrun sip a lemonade, saw