there were breaks in the table, couples dancing beyond. Anette rose,
and Lee Randon, taking her into his arms, swept out from the doorway.
"What was she talking about?" Anette demanded. "You," he replied
experimentally. "I like her; experience has brought her some wisdom;
and she knows men, too."

"God knows she ought to," Anette's face was close to his, and he caught
the flash of malice in her eyes. Conscious of the flavor of an
acceptable flattery he didn't let this disturb him. "What a marvelous
dance," she proceeded; "there must be twenty men over. But I like it
better when the porch isn't inclosed, and you can sit on the bunkers."

How was it that she contrived to make nearly everything she said stir
his imagination? Anette had the art of investing the most trivial
comments with a suggestion of license. It was a stimulating quality,
but dangerous for her--she was past thirty with no sign of marriage on
the horizon. He wondered if she really had thrown her slipper over the
hedge? It wasn't important, Lee decided, if she had. How ludicrous it
was to judge all women, weigh their character, by the single standard
of chastity. But this much must be admitted, when that convention of
morality was broken it had no more significance than the fragments of a
coconut shell. The dance came to an end and they returned to their
vanilla mousse, coffee and cigarettes.

Some of the men were leaning over the table, drunk and noisy; a woman's
laugh was shrill, senseless. Senseless! That, for Lee Randon, described
the whole proceeding. He had looked forward to the dance with a happy
anticipation, and, now that it was here, even before he had come, he
was out of key with it. The efforts of the people about him to forget
themselves were stiff and unconvincing; their attitudes were no more