"And after all I've done for her," said Mr. Reginald Cracknell, hisvoice tremulous with self-pity and his eyes moist with the combinedeffects of anguish and over-indulgence in his celebrated private stock,"after all I've done for her she throws me down."Sally did not reply. The orchestra of the Flower Garden was of acalibre that discouraged vocal competition; and she was having,moreover, too much difficulty in adjusting her feet to Mr. Cracknell'serratic dance-steps to employ her attention elsewhere. They manoeuvredjerkily past the table where Miss Mabel Hobson, the Flower Garden'snewest "hostess," sat watching the revels with a distant hauteur. MissHobson was looking her most regal in old gold and black, and a sorrowfulgulp escaped the stricken Mr. Cracknell as he shambled beneath her eye.

　　"If I told you," he moaned in Sally's ear, "what... was that your ankle?

　　Sorry! Don't know what I'm doing to-night... If I told you what I hadspent on that woman, you wouldn't believe it. And then she throws medown. And all because I said I didn't like her in that hat. She hasn'tspoken to me for a week, and won't answer when I call up on the 'phone.

　　And I was right, too. It was a rotten hat. Didn't suit her a bit. Butthat," said Mr. Cracknell, morosely, "is a woman all over!"Sally uttered a stifled exclamation as his wandering foot descended onhers before she could get it out of the way. Mr. Cracknell interpretedthe ejaculation as a protest against the sweeping harshness of his lastremark, and gallantly tried to make amends.

　　"I don't mean you're like that," he said. "You're different. I couldsee that directly I saw you. You have a sympathetic nature. That's whyI'm telling you all this. You're a sensible and broad-minded girl andcan understand. I've done everything for that woman. I got her this jobas hostess here--you wouldn't believe what they pay her. I starred herin a show once. Did you see those pearls she was wearing? I gave herthose. And she won't speak to me. Just because I didn't like her hat. Iwish you could have seen that hat. You would agree with me, I know,because you're a sensible, broad-minded girl and understand hats. Idon't know what to do. I come here every night." Sally was aware ofthis. She had seen him often, but this was the first time that LeeSchoenstein, the gentlemanly master of ceremonies, had inflicted him onher. "I come here every night and dance past her table, but she won'tlook at me. What," asked Mr. Cracknell, tears welling in his pale eyes,"would you do about it?""I don't know," said Sally, frankly.

　　"Nor do I. I thought you wouldn't, because you're a sensible,broad-minded... I mean, nor do I. I'm having one last try to-night, ifyou can keep a secret. You won't tell anyone, will you?" pleaded Mr.

　　Cracknell, urgently. "But I know you won't because you're a sensible...

　　I'm giving her a little present. Having it brought here to-night. Littlepresent. That ought to soften her, don't you think?""A big one would do it better."Mr. Cracknell kicked her on the shin in a dismayed sort of way.

　　"I never thought of that. Perhaps you're right. But it's too late now.

　　Still, it might. Or wouldn't it? Which do you think?""Yes," said Sally.

　　"I thought as much," said Mr. Cracknell.

　　The orchestra stopped with a thump and a bang, leaving Mr. Cracknellclapping feebly in the middle of the floor. Sally slipped back to hertable. Her late partner, after an uncertain glance about him, as if hehad mislaid something but could not remember what, zigzagged off insearch of his own seat. The noise of many conversations, drowned by themusic, broke out with renewed vigour. The hot, close air was full ofvoices; and Sally, pressing her hands on her closed eyes, was remindedonce more that she had a headache.

　　Nearly a month had passed since her return to Mr. Abrahams' employment.

　　It had been a dull, leaden month, a monotonous succession of lifelessdays during which life had become a bad dream. In some strange nightmarefashion, she seemed nowadays to be cut off from her kind. It was weekssince she had seen a familiar face. None of the companions of her oldboarding-house days had crossed her path. Fillmore, no doubt fromuneasiness of conscience, had not sought her out, and Ginger was workingout his destiny on the south shore of Long Island.

　　She lowered her hands and opened her eyes and looked at the room. Itwas crowded, as always. The Flower Garden was one of the manyestablishments of the same kind which had swum to popularity on therising flood of New York's dancing craze; and doubtless because, as itsproprietor had claimed, it was a nice place and run nice, it hadcontinued, unlike many of its rivals, to enjoy unvarying prosperity. Inits advertisement, it described itself as "a supper-club forafter-theatre dining and dancing," adding that "large and spacious, andsumptuously appointed," it was "one of the town's wonder-places, withits incomparable dance-floor, enchanting music, cuisine, and service deluxe." From which it may be gathered, even without his personalstatements to that effect, that Isadore Abrahams thought well of theplace.

　　There had been a time when Sally had liked it, too. In her first periodof employment there she had found it diverting, stimulating and full ofentertainment. But in those days she had never had headaches or, whatwas worse, this dreadful listless depression which weighed her down andmade her nightly work a burden.

　　"Miss Nicholas."The orchestra, never silent for long at the Flower Garden, had startedagain, and Lee Schoenstein, the master of ceremonies, was presenting anew partner. She got up mechanically.

　　"This is the first time I have been in this place," said the man, asthey bumped over the crowded floor. He was big and clumsy, of course.

　　To-night it seemed to Sally that the whole world was big and clumsy.

　　"It's a swell place. I come from up-state myself. We got nothing likethis where I come from." He cleared a space before him, using Sally as abattering-ram, and Sally, though she had not enjoyed her recentexcursion with Mr. Cracknell, now began to look back to it almost withwistfulness. This man was undoubtedly the worst dancer in America.

　　"Give me li'l old New York," said the man from up-state,unpatriotically. "It's good enough for me. I been to some swell showssince I got to town. You seen this year's 'Follies'?""No.""You go," said the man earnestly. "You go! Take it from me, it's aswell show. You seen 'Myrtle takes a Turkish Bath'?""I don't go to many theatres.""You go! It's a scream. I been to a show every night since I got here.

　　Every night regular. Swell shows all of 'em, except this last one. Icert'nly picked a lemon to-night all right. I was taking a chance,y'see, because it was an opening. Thought it would be something to say,when I got home, that I'd been to a New York opening. Set me backtwo-seventy-five, including tax, and I wish I'd got it in my kick rightnow. 'The Wild Rose,' they called it," he said satirically, as ifexposing a low subterfuge on the part of the management. "'The WildRose!' It sure made me wild all right. Two dollars seventy-five tossedaway, just like that."Something stirred in Sally's memory. Why did that title seem sofamiliar? Then, with a shock, she remembered. It was Gerald's new play.

　　For some time after her return to New York, she had been haunted by thefear lest, coming out other apartment, she might meet him coming out ofhis; and then she had seen a paragraph in her morning paper which hadrelieved her of this apprehension. Gerald was out on the road with a newplay, and "The Wild Rose," she was almost sure, was the name of it.

　　"Is that Gerald Foster's play?" she asked quickly.

　　"I don't know who wrote it," said her partner, "but let me tell you he'sone lucky guy to get away alive. There's fellows breaking stones on theOssining Road that's done a lot less to deserve a sentence. Wild Rose!

　　I'll tell the world it made me go good and wild," said the man fromup-state, an economical soul who disliked waste and was accustomed tospread out his humorous efforts so as to give them every chance. "Why,before the second act was over, the people were beating it for theexits, and if it hadn't been for someone shouting 'Women and childrenfirst' there'd have been a panic."Sally found herself back at her table without knowing clearly how shehad got there.

　　"Miss Nicholas."She started to rise, and was aware suddenly that this was not the voiceof duty calling her once more through the gold teeth of Mr. Schoenstein.

　　The man who had spoken her name had seated himself beside her, and wastalking in precise, clipped accents, oddly familiar. The mist clearedfrom her eyes and she recognized Bruce Carmyle.

　　"I called at your place," Mr. Carmyle was saying, "and the hall portertold me that you were here, so I ventured to follow you. I hope you donot mind? May I smoke?"He lit a cigarette with something of an air. His fingers trembled as heraised the match, but he flattered himself that there was nothing elsein his demeanour to indicate that he was violently excited. BruceCarmyle's ideal was the strong man who can rise superior to hisemotions. He was alive to the fact that this was an embarrassing moment,but he was determined not to show that he appreciated it. He cast asideways glance at Sally, and thought that never, not even in the gardenat Monk's Crofton on a certain momentous occasion, had he seen herlooking prettier. Her face was flushed and her eyes aflame. The stoutwraith of Uncle Donald, which had accompanied Mr. Carmyle on thisexpedition of his, faded into nothingness as he gazed.

　　There was a pause. Mr. Carmyle, having lighted his cigarette, puffedvigorously.

　　"When did you land?" asked Sally, feeling the need of saying something.

　　Her mind was confused. She could not have said whether she was glad orsorry that he was there. Glad, she thought, on the whole. There wassomething in his dark, cool, stiff English aspect that gave her acurious feeling of relief. He was so unlike Mr. Cracknell and the manfrom up-state and so calmly remote from the feverish atmosphere inwhich she lived her nights that it was restful to look at him.

　　"I landed to-night," said Bruce Carmyle, turning and faced her squarely.

　　"To-night!""We docked at ten."He turned away again. He had made his effect, and was content to leaveher to think it over.

　　Sally was silent. The significance of his words had not escaped her.

　　She realized that his presence there was a challenge which she mustanswer. And yet it hardly stirred her. She had been fighting so long,and she felt utterly inert. She was like a swimmer who can battle nolonger and prepares to yield to the numbness of exhaustion. The heat ofthe room pressed down on her like a smothering blanket. Her tired nervescried out under the blare of music and the clatter of voices.

　　"Shall we dance this?" he asked.

　　The orchestra had started to play again, a sensuous, creamy melody whichwas making the most of its brief reign as Broadway's leading song-hit,overfamiliar to her from a hundred repetitions.

　　"If you like."Efficiency was Bruce Carmyle's gospel. He was one of these men who donot attempt anything which they cannot accomplish to perfection.

　　Dancing, he had decided early in his life, was a part of a gentleman'seducation, and he had seen to it that he was educated thoroughly. Sally,who, as they swept out on to the floor, had braced herself automaticallyfor a repetition of the usual bumping struggle which dancing at theFlower Garden had come to mean for her, found herself in the arms of amasterful expert, a man who danced better than she did, and suddenlythere came to her a feeling that was almost gratitude, a miraculousslackening of her taut nerves, a delicious peace. Soothed andcontented, she yielded herself with eyes half closed to the rhythm ofthe melody, finding it now robbed in some mysterious manner of all itsstale cheapness, and in that moment her-whole attitude towards BruceCarmyle underwent a complete change.

　　She had never troubled to examine with any minuteness her feelingstowards him: but one thing she had known clearly since their firstmeeting--that he was physically distasteful to her. For all his goodlooks, and in his rather sinister way he was a handsome man, she hadshrunk from him. Now, spirited away by the magic of the dance, thatrepugnance had left her. It was as if some barrier had been broken downbetween them.

　　"Sally!"She felt his arm tighten about her, the muscles quivering. She caughtsight of his face. His dark eyes suddenly blazed into hers and shestumbled with an odd feeling of helplessness; realizing with a shockthat brought her with a jerk out of the half-dream into which she hadbeen lulled that this dance had not postponed the moment of decision, asshe had looked to it to do. In a hot whisper, the words swept away onthe flood of the music which had suddenly become raucous and blaringonce more, he was repeating what he had said under the trees at Monk'sCrofton on that far-off morning in the English springtime. Dizzily sheknew that she was resenting the unfairness of the attack at such amoment, but her mind seemed numbed.

　　The music stopped abruptly. Insistent clapping started it again, butSally moved away to her table, and he followed her like a shadow.

　　Neither spoke. Bruce Carmyle had said his say, and Sally was sittingstaring before her, trying to think. She was tired, tired. Her eyes wereburning. She tried to force herself to face the situation squarely. Wasit worth struggling? Was anything in the world worth a struggle? Sheonly knew that she was tired, desperately tired, tired to the verydepths of her soul.

　　The music stopped. There was more clapping, but this time the orchestradid not respond. Gradually the floor emptied. The shuffling of feetceased. The Flower Garden was as quiet as it was ever able to be. Eventhe voices of the babblers seemed strangely hushed. Sally closed hereyes, and as she did so from somewhere up near the roof there came thesong of a bird.

　　Isadore Abrahams was a man of his word. He advertised a Flower Garden,and he had tried to give the public something as closely resembling aflower-garden as it was possible for an overcrowded, overheated,overnoisy Broadway dancing-resort to achieve. Paper roses festooned thewalls; genuine tulips bloomed in tubs by every pillar; and from the roofhung cages with birds in them. One of these, stirred by the suddencessation of the tumult below, had began to sing.

　　Sally had often pitied these birds, and more than once had pleaded invain with Abrahams for a remission of their sentence, but somehow atthis moment it did not occur to her that this one was merely praying inits own language, as she often had prayed in her thoughts, to be takenout of this place. To her, sitting there wrestling with Fate, the songseemed cheerful. It soothed her. It healed her to listen to it. Andsuddenly before her eyes there rose a vision of Monk's Crofton, cool,green, and peaceful under the mild English sun, luring her as an oasisseen in the distance lures the desert traveller ...

　　She became aware that the master of Monk's Crofton had placed his handon hers and was holding it in a tightening grip. She looked down andgave a little shiver. She had always disliked Bruce Carmyle's hands.

　　They were strong and bony and black hair grew on the back of them. Oneof the earliest feelings regarding him had been that she would hate tohave those hands touching her. But she did not move. Again that visionof the old garden had flickered across her mind... a haven where shecould rest...

　　He was leaning towards her, whispering in her ear. The room was hotterthan it had ever been, noisier than it had ever been, fuller than it hadever been. The bird on the roof was singing again and now she understoodwhat it said. "Take me out of this!" Did anything matter except that?

　　What did it matter how one was taken, or where, or by whom, so that onewas taken.

　　Monk's Crofton was looking cool and green and peaceful...

　　"Very well," said Sally.

　　Bruce Carmyle, in the capacity of accepted suitor, found himself atsomething of a loss. He had a dissatisfied feeling. It was not themanner of Sally's acceptance that caused this. It would, of course, havepleased him better if she had shown more warmth, but he was prepared towait for warmth. What did trouble him was the fact that his correct mindperceived now for the first time that he had chosen an unsuitablemoment and place for his outburst of emotion. He belonged to theorthodox school of thought which looks on moonlight and solitude as theproper setting for a proposal of marriage; and the surroundings of theFlower Garden, for all its nice-ness and the nice manner in which it wasconducted, jarred upon him profoundly.

　　Music had begun again, but it was not the soft music such as a loverdemands if he is to give of his best. It was a brassy, clashy renderingof a ribald one-step, enough to choke the eloquence of the most ardent.

　　Couples were dipping and swaying and bumping into one another as far asthe eye could reach; while just behind him two waiters had halted inorder to thrash out one of those voluble arguments in which waiters loveto indulge. To continue the scene at the proper emotional level wasimpossible, and Bruce Carmyle began his career as an engaged man bydropping into Smalltalk.

　　"Deuce of a lot of noise," he said querulously.

　　"Yes," agreed Sally.

　　"Is it always like this?""Oh, yes.""Infernal racket!""Yes."The romantic side of Mr. Carmyle's nature could have cried aloud at thehideous unworthiness of these banalities. In the visions which he hadhad of himself as a successful wooer, it had always been in the momentsimmediately succeeding the all-important question and its whisperedreply that he had come out particularly strong. He had been accustomedto picture himself bending with a proud tenderness over his partner inthe scene and murmuring some notably good things to her bowed head. Howcould any man murmur in a pandemonium like this. From tenderness BruceCarmyle descended with a sharp swoop to irritability.

　　"Do you often come here?""Yes.""What for?""To dance."Mr. Carmyle chafed helplessly. The scene, which should be so romantic,had suddenly reminded him of the occasion when, at the age of twenty, hehad attended his first ball and had sat in a corner behind a potted palmperspiring shyly and endeavouring to make conversation to a formidablenymph in pink. It was one of the few occasions in his life at which hehad ever been at a complete disadvantage. He could still remember theclammy discomfort of his too high collar as it melted o............