"Dancing?" he inquired, lighting his cigarette.

Tappan nodded. "You, too, of course." For Dysart was one of those types
known in society as a "dancing man." He also led cotillions, and a
morally blameless life as far as the more virile Commandments were
concerned.

He said: "That little Seagrave girl is rather fetching."

Tappan answered indifferently:

"She resembles the general run of this year's output. She's weedy. They
all ought to marry before they go about to dinners, anyway."

"Marry whom?"

"Anybody--Delancy, here, for instance. You know as well as I do that no
woman is possible unless she's married," yawned Tappan. "Isn't that so,
Delancy?" clapping Grandcourt on the shoulder.

Grandcourt said "yes," to be rid of him; but Dysart turned around with
his usual smile of amused contempt.

"You think so, too, Delancy," he said, "because what is obvious and
ready-made appeals to you. You think as you eat--heavily--and you miss a
few things. That little Seagrave girl is charming. But you'd never
discover it."

Grandcourt slowly removed the fat cigar from his lips, rolled it