gauzy wings, which were herself and Jim and the music. And they were
a part of the music and the music was a part of them. It was divine.

"Say, you can dance!" said Jim admiringly when the music stopped.

"I love to dance."

"I should say you might! You dance better than any girl I ever
danced with!"

This, from a military uniform, was praise indeed. Missy blushed and
was moved to hide her exaltation under modesty.

"I guess the reason is because I love it so much. I feel as if it's
the music dancing--not me. Do you feel it that way?" "Never thought
of it that way," answered Jim. "But I don't know but what you're
right. Say, you ARE a funny girl, aren't you?"

But Missy knew that whatever he meant by her being a "funny girl" he
didn't dislike her for it, because he rushed on: "You must let me
have a lot of dances--every one you can spare."

After that everything was rapture. All the boys liked to dance with
Missy because she was such a good dancer, and Jim kept wanting to
cut in to get an extra dance with her himself. Somehow even the
sting of the visiting girl's laugh and of Raymond's defection seemed
to have subsided into triviality. And when Raymond came up to ask
for a dance she experienced a new and pleasurable thrill in telling
him she was already engaged. That thrill disturbed her a little. Was
it possible that she was vindictive, wicked? But when she saw Jim