caroming down the long floor with more than one collision with
the increasing couples. Graceful himself in his slender, tall,
lean-stomached way, Bert was accounted a good dancer; yet Saxon
did not remember ever having danced with him with keen pleasure.
Just a hit of a jerk spoiled his dancing--a jerk that did not
occur, usually, but that always impended. There was something
spasmodic in his mind. He was too quick, or he continually
threatened to be too quick. He always seemed just on the verge of
overrunning the time. It was disquieting. He made for unrest.

"You're a dream of a dancer," Billy Roberts was saying. "I've
heard lots of the fellows talk about your dancing."

"I love it," she answered.

But from the way she said it he sensed her reluctance to speak,
and danced on in silence, while she warmed with the appreciation
of a woman for gentle consideration. Gentle consideration was a
thing rarely encountered in the life she lived. IS THIS THE MAN?
She remembered Mary's "I'd marry him to-morrow," and caught
herself speculating on marrying Billy Roberts by the next day--if
he asked her.

With eyes that dreamily desired to close, she moved on in the
arms of this masterful, guiding pressure. A PRIZE-FIGHTER! She
experienced a thrill of wickedness as she thought of what Sarah
would say could she see her now. Only he wasn't a prizefighter,
but a teamster.

Came an abrupt lengthening of step, the guiding pressure grew