rattles and whistles. Broken-collared men and faded women struggled
for elbow room like a mass of flies caught on sticky paper. There
was something both heathenish and pathetic in the whole thing. The
place was reekingly hot.

"Come on," said Joan, her blood stirred by the movement and sound.

Palgrave held her close and edged his way into the crowd between
pointed bare elbows and tightly clasped hands.

"They call this dancing!" he said.

"What do you call it?"

"A bullfight in Hades." And he laughed and put his cheek against her
hair and held her young slim body against his own. What did he care
what it was or where they were? He had all the excuse that he needed
to get the sense and scent of her. His utter distaste of being
bruised and bumped, and of adding himself to a heterogeneous
collection of people with no more individuality than sheep, who
followed each other from place to place in flocks after the manner
of sheep, left him. This girl was something more than a young, naive
creature from the country, childishly keen to do everything and go
everywhere at fever heat--something more than the very epitome of
triumphant youth as clean and sweet as apple blossoms, with whom to
flirt and pose as being the blase man of the world, the Mr. Know-All
of civilization, a wild flower in a hot house. Attracted at once by
her exquisite coloring and delicious profile, and amused by her
imperative manner and intolerant point of view, he had now begun to
be piqued and intrigued by her insurgent way of treating marriage