The one thing that had been left out of the program for lack of suitable opportunity was dancing, an omission not to be tolerated by two strenuous and modern young persons who would rather fox trot than eat any day.  Accordingly on Thursday it was agreed that they should repair to the White Swan, a resort down the river, famous for its excellent cuisine, its perfect dance floor and its “snappy” negro orchestra.  Both Ted and Madeline knew that the Swan had also a reputation of another less desirable sort, but both were willing to ignore the fact for the sake of enjoying the “jolliest jazz on the river” as the advertisement read.  The dance was the thing.

It was, indeed.  The evening was decidedly the best yet, as both averred, pirouetting and spinning and romping through one fox trot and one step after another.  The excitement of the music, the general air of exhilaration about the place and their own high-pitched mood made the occasion different from the other gaieties of the week, merrier, madder, a little more reckless.

Once, seeing a painted, over-dressed or rather under-dressed, girl in the arms of a pasty-faced, protruding-eyed roue, both obviously under the spell of too much liquid inspiration, Ted suffered a momentary revulsion and qualm of conscience.  He shouldn’t have brought Madeline here.  It wasn’t the sort of place to bring a girl, no matter how good the music was.  Oh, well!  What did it matter just this once?  They were there now and they might as well get all the fun they could out of it.  The music started up, he held out his hand to Madeline and they wheeled into the maze of dancers, the girl’s pliant body yielding to his arms, her eyes brilliant with excitement.  They danced on and on and it was amazingly and imprudently late when they finally left the Swan and went home to Cousin Emma’s house.

Ted had meant to leave Madeline at the gate, but somehow he lingered and followed the girl out into the yard behind the house where they seated themselves in the hammock in the shade of the lilac bushes.  And suddenly, without any warning, he had her in his arms and was kissing her tempestuously.

It was only for a moment, however.  He pulled himself together, hot cheeked and ashamed and flung himself out of the hammock.  Madeline sat very still, not saying a word, as she watched him march to and fro between the beds of verbena and love-lies-bleeding and portulaca.  Presently he paused beside the hammock, looking down at the girl.

“I am going home to-morrow,” he said a little huskily.

Madeline threw out one hand and clutched one of the boy’s in a feverish clasp.

“No!  No!” she cried.  “You mustn’t go.  Please don’t, Ted.”

“I’ve got to,” stolidly.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

“You mean—­what you did—­just now?”

He nodded miserably.

“That doesn’t matter.  I’m not angry.  I—­I liked it.”