than masks held before their faces; there wasn't a genuine daring
emotion, the courage of an admitted thrill, to be found. And then, as
if to mock his understanding, he saw Peyton Morris with such a
desperately white face bent over Mina Raff that he had an impulse to
reprove him for his shameless exposure.

Instead, he cut in on their dancing and carried her to the other end of
the floor. "I don't know why you did that," she complained; "you don't
like me. But you can dance, and with Peyton it's a little like rushing
down a football field. There! Shall we drop the encore and go outside?
My wrap is on a chair in the corner."

* * * * *

"I don't go to parties," she explained; "I am only here on Anette's
account. That was Oscar Hammerstein's idea--he wouldn't let his
actresses even ride in a public car; he said that mystery was a part of
their value, and that people wouldn't pay to see them if they were
always on the streets. Beside, I am tired all the time; you can't
possibly know how hard I work; a hundred times harder than you, for
instance."

"I've been told that about moving pictures."

"The glare of the silver-foil reflectors is unbearable," she looked up,
with a pointed and famous effect. "But you don't like me?"

"I do; aside from that, though, I'm not sure; probably because you are
so remote and cold."