Quin | Page 4

recital, her
half-parted lips only closing occasionally to say, "Wonderful!" or "How
perfectly wonderful!"
On and on went the music, round and round went the dancers, and still
the private in the uniform that was too big and the officer's girl in blue
and gray sat in the alcove, totally oblivious to everything but each
other.
It was not until the girl happened to look at the ridiculous little watch
that was pretending to keep time on her wrist that the spell was broken.
"Merciful heaven!" she exclaimed dramatically, "It's six o'clock. What
will the family say to me? I must fly this minute."
"But ain't you going to finish this dance with me?" asked Quin with
tragic insistence.
"Ought you to dance again?" The note was personal and divinely
solicitous.

"I oughtn't, but I am"; and, with superb disregard for doctors and syntax
alike, Quin put a firm arm around that slender yielding figure and
swept her into the moving crowd.
They danced very quietly this time, for he was determined to hold out
to the end. In fact, from the dreamy, preoccupied look on their faces
one might have mistaken them for two zealous young acolytes lost in
the performance of a religious rite.
Quin was still in a trance when he helped her on with her coat and
piloted her down the crowded stairs. He could not bear to have her
jostled by the boisterous crowd, and he glared at the men whose
admiring glances dared to rest too long upon her.
Now that the dance was over, the young lady was in a fever of
impatience to get away. Qualms of remorse seized her for the way she
had treated her one-time escort, and she hinted at the trouble in store
for her if the family heard of her escapade.
Outside the pavements were white with snow, and falling flakes
glistened against the blue electric lights. Holiday crowds thronged the
sidewalks, and every other man was in uniform.
"I left my car at the corner," said Quin's companion, nervously
consulting her watch for the fourth time. "You needn't come with me; I
can find it all right."
But Quin hadn't the slightest intention of forgoing one second of that
delectable interview. He followed her to her car, awkwardly helped her
in, and stood looking at her wistfully. In her hurry to get home she
seemed to have forgotten him entirely. In two minutes she would never
know that she had met him, while he----
"Good-by, Soldier Boy," she said, suddenly holding out her hand.
"My name is Graham," stammered Quin--"Sergeant Quinby Graham;
Battery C, Sixth Field Artillery. And yours?"

She was fussing with the starter by this time, but she smiled up at him
and shook her head.
"I? Oh, I haven't any! I'm just an irresponsible young person who is
going to gets fits for having stayed out so late. But it was worth it,
wasn't it--Sergeant Slim?"
And then, before he knew what had happened, the small runabout was
skilfully backed out of its narrow space and a red tail-light was rapidly
wagging down the avenue, leaving him standing dazed on the
curbstone.
"Where in the devil have you been?" demanded a cross voice behind
him, and turning he encountered Cass's snub-nose and irate eyes.
Quin's own eyes were shining and his face was flushed. With a laugh
he flung his arm around his buddy's shoulder and affectionately
punched his head.
"In heaven," he answered laconically.
"Funny place to leave your overcoat!" said Cass, viewing him with
suspicion. "Quin Graham, have you had a drink?"
Quin hilariously declared his innocence. The draught of which he had
so freely imbibed, though far more potent than any earthly brew, was
one against which there are no prohibitory laws.
CHAPTER 2
The fact that Cass had neglected to tell the family that he was bringing
a friend home to supper did not in the least affect his welcome. It was
not that the daily menu was of such a lavish nature that a guest or two
made no difference; it was simply that the Martels belonged to that
casual type which accepts any interruption to the regular order of things
as a God-sent diversion.
In the present instance Rose had only to dispatch Edwin to the grocery

for eggs and cheese, and send Myrna next door to borrow a
chafing-dish, and, while these errands were being accomplished, to
complete her own sketchy toilet. Rose was an impressionist when it
came to dress. She got the desired effect with the least possible effort,
as was evinced now by the way she was whirling two coils of chestnut
hair, from which the tangles had not been removed, into round puffs
over each ear. A dab of rouge on each cheek, a touch