"I wish ... you might; but I didn't mean to say that, to let you know--"

"You didn't let me know anything," he broke into her period
impatiently. "If we get on together isn't that enough? It's really not
necessary to hide ourselves behind a lot of pretentious words. And what
we feel tonight hasn't a thing to do with tomorrow; probably then we'll
be entirely different; how can it matter?"

"It does, though, because you might hate me tomorrow for being myself
tonight. What you think of me has to be big enough to guard against
that. You hurt me, Lee, very much, talking in that way."

* * * * *

Alice Lucian, with George Willard, passed them and nodded significantly
toward the entrance. "You will need a cloak," Lee told Anette; "it's
blowing colder and colder." She vanished up the stairs, to the
dressing-rooms, while Lee stood waiting with Willard. He didn't
especially like the latter, a man with an exuberant loud friendliness,
a good nature, that served as a cover for a facilely predatory
sensuality.

He was continually taking hold of feminine arms, bending close over
dinner dresses; and he used--with a show of humorous frankness--his
long knowledge of the girls of Eastlake as a reason for kissing them on
every possible occasion.

Anette and Alice appeared, with their wraps turned to exhibit the silk
linings, bright like their dresses; and, at a favorable moment, they