Fraser observed that the floor was already crowded with dancers.

The quadrille came to an end as he arrived, and, after they had seated
their partners, red-faced perspiring young punchers swelled the knot
around the door.

Alec stayed to chaff with them, while the Texan sauntered across the
floor and took a seat on one of the benches which lined the walls. As
he did so, a man and his partner, so busy in talk with each other that
they had not observed who he was, sat down beside him in such position
that the young woman was next him. Without having looked directly at
either of them, Fraser knew that the girl was Arlie Dillon, and her
escort Jed Briscoe. She had her back half turned toward him, so that,
even after she was seated she did not recognize her neighbor.

Steve smiled pleasantly, and became absorbed in a rather noisy bout of
repartee going on between one swain and his lass, not so absorbed,
however, as not to notice that he and his unconscious neighbors were
becoming a covert focus of attention. He had already noticed a shade
of self-consciousness in the greeting of those whom he met, a hint of
a suggestion that he was on trial. Among some this feeling was
evidently more pronounced. He met more than one pair of eyes that gave
back to his genial nod cold hostility.

At such an affair as this, Jed Briscoe was always at his best. He was
one of the few men in the valley who knew how to waltz well, and music
and rhythm always brought out in him a gay charm women liked. His
lithe grace, his assurance, his ease of manner and speech, always
differentiated him from the other ranchmen.