In the next instant she sprang away from him, and in dire confusion fled out of the box and down the corridor.
At the door leading back into the ball-room a group of dancers had gathered and were exchanging humorous remarks about a woman who was being borne, feet foremost, into the corridor by two men in costume.
Nance, craning her neck to see, caught a glimpse of a white face with a sagging mouth, and staring eyes under a profusion of tumbled red hair. With a gasp of recognition she pushed forward and impulsively seized one of the woman's limp hands.
"Gert!" she cried, "what's the matter? Are you hurt?"
The monk gave a significant wink at Mac, who had joined them, and the by-standers laughed.
"She's drunk!" said Mac, abruptly, pulling Nance away. "Where did you ever know that woman?"
"Why, it's Gert, you know, at the factory! She worked at the bench next to mine!"
Her eyes followed the departing group somberly, and she lingered despite
Mac's persuasion.
Poor Gert! Was this what she meant by a good time? To be limp and silly like that, with her dress slipping off her shoulder and people staring at her and laughing at her?
"I don't want to dance!" she said impatiently, shaking off Mac's hand.