human cry once it makes itself heard above the noise of the cars or the music of the band.
City people have always made a pretense of concealing their sympathetic expressions under a cynical mask. It is this mask that offends so many of the praters against cruelty, irritates them to denunciations more merciless than the lack of mercy they berate, and blinds their nearsighted eyes to the village heart that beats in every city—a huge heart made up of countless village hearts.
So Mrs. Neff, having betrayed an artless Samaritanism, made haste to resume the red domino of burlesque to hide her blushes, as children caught in a pretty action fall to capering. Her motive was not lost on Forbes when she said:
"We've got to do something to get into heaven, you know. That line about the camel and the needle's eye is always with us poor rich, though the Lord knows I'm not rich. I hope you have a lot of money, or we'll starve—unless we loot the Savings Fund."
He hardly knew what to say to this, so he danced a little harder and swept her off her feet, till she was gasping for breath and pleading:
"Stop, stop! I'm afraid I'm only an old woman after all. And I didn't want you to know."
He led her to a chair, where she sank exhausted and panting hard. By the time the dance was over and the rest had returned, she was herself again.
"My new husband is the love of a tangoist," she babbled across her highball. "If that infernal committee meeting hadn't kept me so late, I could have had more. Are you all going to the Tuesday to-night?"
They all were.
"I was to have taken Alice, but I'm going to put her to bed without any supper. I'll take Mr. Forbes instead. Will you come? Nothing would give you more pleasure. That's right. Sorry I can't accept your invitation to dinner, but I'm booked. What about the opera to-night? It's 'Tristan and Isolde' with Fremstad. Senator Tait was to have taken us, but he can't go; so Alice won't care to go. He sent me his box, and I have all those empty chairs to fill. Mr. Forbes can fill one. You can, can't you?" He nodded helplessly, and she hunted him a ticket out of a handbag as ridiculously crowded as a boy's first pocket. "It begins at a quarter to eight. I can't possibly be there before nine. You go when you want to. Who else can come?"
Persis said that she was dining at Winifred's with Willie, and added: "He hates the opera, but if I can drag him along I'll come. And if I can't I'll come anyway."
Winifred accepted for Bob. "I always think I ought to have been a grand-opera singer," she sighed, "I've got the build for it."
Ten Eyck "had a dinner-job on," but promised to drop in when he could.
Having completed her quorum, and distributed her tickets, Mrs. Neff made ready to depart by attacking her highball again. The music began before she had finished it, and Forbes rose before Persis with an old-time formula.
"May I have the honor?"
As Persis stepped into his arms, Winifred cried:
"Traitress! It's my turn with the li'l snojer man."
And Mrs. Neff caught Persis' elbow to say: "Be very circumspect or I'll sue you for alienation of the alimony."
Forbes and Persis sent back mocking smiles as they side-stepped into the carousel.
She was his again in the brief mock-marriage of the dance. His very muscles welcomed her with such exultance that he must forcibly restrain them from too ardent a clasp. The whole mood of the music was triumph, overweening boastfulness, and irresistible arrogance. It was difficult to be afraid of anything in that baronial walk-around.
But Forbes was afraid of silence. It gave imagination too loose a rein. To keep himself from loving her too well, and offending her again after she had forgiven him once, he had recourse to language, the old concealer of thought.
At first he had been too new to the steps to talk freely. Words had blurted out of him as from a beginner in a riding-school. But now there was a spirit in his feet that led him who knows how?
Forbes astonished Persis and himself by his first words:
"Don't you ever sleep, Miss Cabot?"
She threw him a startled glance. "Do I look so jaded as all that?"
He was so upset that he lost step and regained it with awkwardness of foot and word. "No, no, it's be—because you look—you look as if you slept for—forever. I don't mean that exact—exactly, either."
"Then what do you mean, Mr. Forbes?"
"I mean: I left you this morning at about four o'clock in one costume, and I saw you at eight in another."
"At eight this morning? Oh yes, I was riding with my father. Were you riding, too? I didn't see you."
"Oh yes, you did. I stood on the bridge at daybreak. And you looked at me and cut me dead."
"Did I really? I must have been asleep."
"Far from it. Your eyes were as bright as—as—"
"This music is very reassuring, isn't it?"
"Yes; please blame the music if I grow too rash. But you really were wonderful. I thought you were a boy at first. And you ride so well! You were racing your father. How could you be so wide awake after so strenuous a night?"
"Oh, I had to get up. It is poor Dad's only chance nowadays. He's awfully busy in the Street, and he's so worried. And he needs the exercise. He won't take it unless I go along."
There was an interlude of tenderness in the music. He responded to it.
"That's very beautiful and self-sacrificing of you. But how can you keep up the pace?"
"I can't, much longer. I'm almost all in. The season is nearly over, though. If everything goes right, Dad and I will get out of town—to the other side, perhaps. Then I can sleep all the way across. If he can't go abroad, we'll be alone anyway, since everybody else will leave town. Then I can catch up on sleep."
"You must be made of iron," he said.
"Am I so heavy as all that?"
"Oh, no, no, you are—you are—" But he could not say anything without saying too much. She saved the day by a change of subject.
"And I stared right at you, and didn't know you?"
"Why should you? It was stupid of me to expect you to remember me. But I did, and—when you didn't, I was crushed."
"Of course you were," she crooned. "I always want to murder anybody who forgets me."
"Surely that can't happen often? How could any one forget You?"
It was perfectly sincere, yet it sounded like the bumptious praise of a yokel. She raised her eyelids and reproved him.
"That's pretty rough work for a West-Pointer. Rub it out and do it over again."
Again he lost the rhythm, and suffered agonies of confusion in recovering it. But the tango music put him on his feet again. How could he be humble to that
