smile--a strange indolent little smile, remnant of excitement--faded
from her face. She stared, and she put an instinctive hand up to her
somewhat dishevelled hair. Then she passed on with her companion.

"Of all the nerve!" she exclaimed. "Who's that soldier boob?"

Lane could not catch the low reply. He lingered there a while longer,
and then returned to the hall, much surprised to find it so dark he
could scarcely distinguish the dancers. The lights had been lowered.
If the dance had been violent and strange before this procedure, it
was now a riot. In the semi-darkness the dancers cut loose. The paper
strings had been loosened and had fallen down to become tangled with
the flying feet and legs. Confetti swarmed like dark snowdrops in the
hot air. Lane actually smelled the heat of bodies--a strangely
stirring and yet noxious sensation. A rushing, murmuring, shrill
sound--voices, laughter, cries, and the sliding of feet and brushing
of gowns--filled the hall--ominous to Lane's over-sensitive faculties,
swelling unnaturally, the expression of unrestrained physical abandon.
Lane walked along the edge of this circling, wrestling melee, down to
the corner where the orchestra held forth. They seemed actuated by the
same frenzy which possessed the dancers. The piccolo player lay on his
back on top of the piano, piping his shrill notes at the ceiling. And
Lane made sure this player was drunk. On the moment then the jazz came
to an end with a crash. The lights flashed up. The dancers clapped and
stamped their pleasure.

Lane wound his way back to Blair.

"I've had enough, Blair," he said. "I'm all in. Let's go."