holding out his hand. "Come, Polly, you can't refuse; they're forming
the Lancers. Hurry!"

Polly's feet twitched nervously under her white gown, and she longed
more than ever after the excitement she had passed through, to lose
herself in the witching music, and the mazy dance. She hesitated a bit,
but just then glancing across the room, "Come," she said, "I want you to
dance with Ray Simmons. You can't refuse," using his own words; and
before he was conscious how it was done, he was by Ray's side, and
asking for the pleasure of the dance.

Polly stood quite still and saw them go away and take the last places in
the set, and a sorry little droop fell upon the curves of the laughing
mouth. She was very tired, and the elation that had possessed her over
the success of the evening was fast dropping out, now that everybody was
enjoying themselves in their own way, leaving her alone. She felt left
out in the cold; and though she fought against it, a faint feeling of
regret stole over her for what she had done. She almost wished she was
standing there by the side of Picketing Dodge, one of the bright group
on whom the eyes of the older people were all turned, as they waited for
the first figure to begin.

"Well, Polly"--it was Mr. Alstyne who spoke, and he acted as if he had
come to stay by her side--"you've covered yourself with glory this
evening."

"Have I, sir?" asked Polly absently, wishing there had been less of the
glory, and a little more fun.

"Yes, indeed," said Mr. Alstyne, his keen eyes searching her face.