“The Carrigan Cut!” she cried.
He went through with it automatically. “No one can dance like you!” she whispered, as the hand of Ben Craig fell on Carrigan’s arm, and as she moved away with the solemn-faced cow-puncher, she saw Carrigan standing as Dave Carey had done, with the faraway look, like a man who says farewell to everything that matters in his life.
Maurie Gordon and Dave Carey, their eyes fixed upon one object on the dancing-floor, came together at a corner of the hall. She drew closer. They started forward at the same time, then stopped and glared at each other with bitter understanding.
“Maurie,” said Carey gently, “take my tip. Don’t bother Miss Silvestre no more to-night. It won’t bring you nothin’.”
Maurie smiled from the deeps of his pity.
“Jacqueline,” he said, with marked emphasis, “has found one man who understands her.”
Carey shook his head slowly. He spoke carefully, as one would explain a difficult problem to a child. Jac was making the second circuit of the hall with Craig. She had reached the point: “But don’t westerners as a rule call each other by the given name, Mr. Craig?”
“She’s had a sad life, Maurie,” said Carey, his eyes following the graceful vision in green. “You, with your bringin’ up, you couldn’t understand how to take to a swell girl like—”
He stopped, stiffening, and changed of face.
“I guess that’ll hold you, Maurie. Did you see her smile at me?”