Andrew's cigar dropped from his mouth.

"Do you mean to say that _they_ go to a place and dance--in full
dress--on the floor--with everybody? Why, any one can pay a dollar."

Chapman laughed. "Oh!--well--go and see how it is for yourself. Meet me
in the gallery at ten, and I'll tell you who's who. _Au revoir_."

* * * * *

At half-past nine Andrew stood before his mirror and regarded himself
meditatively. Without vanity, he could admit that so far as appearance
counted he would be an ornament to any ballroom. His strong young figure
carried its evening clothes with the air of a gentleman, not of a
waiter. He had seen fashionable men in Delmonico's who needed their
facial tresses to avoid confusion. Chapman had that day pointed out to
him two scions of distinguished name whose "sideboards" had caused him
to mistake them for coachmen. He stroked his own mustache. It had never
been cut, and was as silken as the hair of the ladies he worshipped. His
head had been cropped by the most fashionable barber in New York. He
wore no jewels. In a word, he was correct, and he assured himself of the
fact with proud humility. Nevertheless, his heart was heavy behind his
irreproachable waistcoat.

From his apartment it was but a few steps to the Casino. He walked there
without injury to his pumps, bought his ticket at the office, half
fearing that it would be refused him, and sauntered across the lawn to
the inner door of the ballroom. The horseshoe was brilliantly lighted,
and, with its airy architecture, looked as if awaiting a revel of the
fairies. The cottagers, Andrew understood, would alight at an outside