That did not look good to Weary, and he came near going over and
demanding to know what they were talking about. He was ready to bet
that Myrt Forsyte, with that smile, was up to some deviltry--and he
wished he knew what. She reminded him somewhat of Glory when Glory was
cloyed with peaceful living. He even told himself viciously that Myrt
Forsyth had hair the exact shade of Glory's, and it came near giving
him a dislike of the horse.

The conversation in the corner, after certain conventional subjects had
been exhausted, came to Miss Forsyth's desire something like this: She
said how she loved to waltz,--with the right partner, that is. Apropos
the right partner, she glanced slyly from the end of her long eyes and
remarked:

"Will--Mr. Davidson--is an _ideal_ partner, don't you think? Are
you--but of _course_ you must be _acquainted_ with him, living in the
same _neighborhood_?" Her inflection made a question of the
declaration.

"Certainly I am acquainted with Mr. Davidson," said Miss Satterly with
just the right shade of indifference. "He does dance very well, though
there are others I like better." That, of course, was a prevarication.
"You knew him before tonight?"

Miss Forsyth laughed that sort of laugh which may mean anything you
like. "_Knew_ him? Why, we were en--that is, we grew _up_ in the same
_town_. I was so perfectly _amazed_ to find him _here_, poor fellow."

"Why poor fellow?" asked Miss Satterly, the direct. "Because you found