“He LOOKS like a poet,” she said, slowly. “He is wonderfully handsome, so distinguished, and SUCH a dancer! But why should a poet live here—all the year? Is that all he does for a living—write poetry?”
Jane pretended not to hear her and, a masculine friend coming to claim his dance, seized the opportunity to escape. However, another “sitter out” supplied the information.
“He is a sort of assistant bookkeeper at the lumber yard by the railroad station,” said this person. “His grandfather owns the place, I believe. One would never guess it to look at him now. . . . Humph! I wonder if Mrs. Fosdick knows. They say she is—well, not democratically inclined, to say the least.”
Albert had his two promised dances with Madeline Fosdick, but the “extra” he did not obtain. Mrs. Fosdick, the ever watchful, had seen and made inquiries. Then she called her daughter to her and issued an ultimatum.
“I am SO sorry,” said the young lady, in refusing the plea for the “extra.” “I should like to, but I—but Mother has asked me to dance with a friend of ours from home. I—I AM sorry, really.”
She looked as if she meant it. Albert was sorry, too. This had been a strange evening, another combination of sweet and sour. He glanced across the floor and saw Helen and the inevitable Raymond emerge together from the room where the refreshments were served. Raging jealousy seized him at the sight. Helen had not been near him, had scarcely spoken to him since his arrival. He forgot that he had not been near nor spoken to her.
He danced twice or thrice more with acquaintances, “summer” or permanent, and then decided to go home. Madeline Fosdick he saw at the other end of the room surrounded by a group of young masculinity. Helen he could not see at the moment. He moved in the direction of the coatroom. Just as he reached the door he was surprised to see Ed Raymond stride by him, head down and looking anything but joyful. He watched and was still more astonished to see the young man get his coat and hat from the attendant and walk out of the hotel. He saw him stride away along the drive and down the moonlit road. He was, apparently, going home—going home alone.
He got his own coat and hat and, before putting them on, stepped back for a final look at the ballroom. As he stood by the cloakroom door someone touched his arm. Turning he saw Helen.
“Why—why, Helen!” he exclaimed, in surprise.
“Are you going home?” she asked, in a low tone.