trickled away as though drawn by the whole irresistible trend of opposing fact.
When it was time to go, it was decided to dance once more, and he invited Floss. Just then she loomed before him as the only friend he possessed in the world.
"Well, honey, what kind of a time you been having?" she asked.
Again some bottle inside him poured its warm contents through his being. "It's been a mixed time," he confided, holding her more intimately near him. "A terrible mixed sort of time."
"Mixed, honey? Tell Flossie."
"Oh, it's not for telling. I only need a little sympathy. Could I come and see you tomorrow?" he asked, forming a swift resolution.
She had to think in the morning she was going to shop, but he could go with her.
She drew back to look at him more closely. "You're not in love or anything, are you?"
"Yes, with you!" he laughed.
"God love him," she said, and gave him a hug. ······· When he walked through the open doorway of Floss's palace next morning the first person he encountered was the girl whose image had tinged and flavored the March morning,—a morning on which all Paris seemed swept and garnished in the hope of a visit from spring.
