He presented himself to her for the next dance.
She laughed. “I’m booked.”
He blanched at the treacherous heartlessness and sat the dance out––stood it out, rather, among the superfluous men on the side-lines. A morose and ridiculous gloom possessed him at seeing still a fourth stranger with his arms about Mamise, her breast to his and her procedure obedient to his. Worse yet, when a fifth insolent stranger cut in on the twin stars, Mamise abandoned her fourth temporary husband for another with a levity that amounted to outrageous polyandry.
Davidge felt no impulse to cut in. He disliked dancing so 257 intensely that he wanted to put an end to the abomination, reform it altogether. He did not want to dance between those white arms so easily forsworn. He wanted to rescue Mamise from this place of horror and hale her away to a cave with no outlook on mankind.
It was she who sought him where he glowered. Perhaps she understood him. If she did, she was wise enough to enjoy the proof of her sway over him and still sane enough to take a joy in her triumph.
She introduced her partner––Davidge would almost have called the brute a paramour. He did not get the man’s name and was glad of it––especially as the hunter deserted her and went after his next Sabine.
“You’ve lost your faithful stenographer,” was the first phrase of Mamise’s that Davidge understood.
“Why so?” he grumbled.
“Because this is the life for me. I’ve been a heroine and a war-worker about as long as I can. I’m for the fleshpots and the cold-cream jars and the light fantastic. Aren’t you going to dance with me any more?”
“Just as you please,” Davidge said, with a singularly boyish sulkiness, and wondered why Mamise laughed so mercilessly: