Some one was giving a dinner dance at the country club, and Blount, who was a week-end guest of the Beverleys, was ill-natured eugh to be resentful. What right had a gay and frivolous world to come and thrust its light-hearted happiness upon him when Patricia had said No ? It was like bullying a cripple, he told himself morosely, and when he had read the single telegram which had come while he was at dinner he begged Mrs. Beverley's indulgence and went out to find a chair in a corner of the veranda where the frivolities had t as yet intruded. It was a North Shore night like that in which Shakespeare has mingled moon-shadows with the gossamer fantasies of the immortal Dream. Though the dance was in-doors, the trees on the lawn and the road-fronting verandas of the club-house were hung with festoons of Chinese lanterns. At the carriage-entrance smart automobiles were coming and going, and one of them, with the dust of the Boston parkways on its running-gear, brought the guests of hor-three daughters of a Western senator lately home from their summer abroad. Blount knew neither the horers r the hored ones, and had resolutely refused the chance offered him by Mrs. Beverley to amend his igrance. For Patricia's No was t yet twenty-four hours old, and since it had changed the stars in their courses for Patricia's lover, the cataclysm was much too recent to postulate anything like a return of the heavenly bodies to their rmal orbits.