me. I'll write this story. And hold me three columns. Delay going to press."
"I held a column," said the assistant doubtfully, "and there's just come in a peach of a Chinatown murder."
"Kill it," said the editor decisively, "and do as I tell you." He spat at a sawdust box; then, the champagne circulating comfortably, he vouchsafed a little of his reason. "This man Boyd has evidently come to stay. That party, Cort, means two things. He's rich—why he must have brought the wine in tank cars; and he's full of energy. Man like that is always doing something. And bye and bye he's going to want publicity. You mark my words, Cort. And what he wants he pays for."
The assistant hopped down from his desk.
"You got a long head, chief, I'll say that for you," he conceded.
The party was swinging on its way. The violins crooned, the rhythm beat in hot pulses, the hypnotic swing of the dancers was like a music made visible. Cheeks were flushed, eyes sparkling or dreamy. It was as though in the flag-draped, flower-hung enclosure, with its reflected lights, a new world had been created out of music and dancing, wherein people dwelt as in another element with new thoughts, new emotions informing their souls. A magic was about them that fused their diversities, lifted their fatigues.
After the Grand March Colonel Peyton abandoned the dancing floor, where his tall form and his old-fashioned courtly carriage had made a brave display, and took refuge with a number of other old-timers at the card table. Thence, however, he appeared occasionally to address a gallant word to Allie, or to beam out on the shifting dancers.
"She is a great success," stated Mrs. Peyton, decidedly. "She is dancing every dance, and the men are fighting for the extras. We can be proud of her."
"She moves divinely," replied the Colonel. "I wish I were twenty years younger!" he sighed.
"You're quite enough of a fool about women as it is," rejoined Allie.
Daphne caught sight of them together and waved her hand.
