In the foyer she revived a bit and drank gratefully of the water he brought; but the color remained out of her cheeks and the cough would rack her.

“I guess I oughtta go home, Charley.”

“Aw, cut it!  You ain’t the only girl I’ve seen give out.  Sit here and rest a minute and you’ll be all right.  Great Scott!  I came here to dance.”

She rose to her feet a bit unsteadily, but smiling.  “Fussy!  Who said I didn’t?”

“That’s more like it.”

And they were off again to the lilt of the music, but, struggle as she would, the coughing and the dizziness and the heat took hold of her, and at the close of the dance she fainted quietly against his shoulder.

When she finally caught at consciousness, as it passed and repassed her befuddled mind, she was on the floor of the cloak-room, her head pillowed on the skirt of a pink domino.

“There, there, dearie; your young man’s waiting outside to take you home.”

“I—­I’m all right!”

“Certainly you are.  The heat done it.  Here; lemme help you out of your domino.”

“It was the heat done it.”

“There; you’re all right now.  I gotta get back to my dance.  You fainted right up against him, dearie; and I seen you keel.”

“Gee! ain’t I the limit!”

“Here; lemme help on with your coat.  Right there he is, waiting.”

In the foyer Sara Juke met Charley Chubb shamefacedly.  “I spoilt everything, didn’t I?”

“I guess you couldn’t help it.  All right?”

“Yes, Charley.”  She met the air gratefully, worming her little hand into the curve of his elbow.  “Gee!  I feel fine now.”

“Come; here’s a car.”

“Let’s walk up Sixth Avenue, Charley; the air feels fine.”

“All right.”

“You ain’t sore, are you, Charley?  It was so jammed dancing, anyway.”

“I ain’t sore.”

“It was the heat done it.”

“Yeh.”

“Honest, it’s grand to be outdoors, ain’t it?  The stars and—­and chilliness and—­and—­all!”

“Listen to the garden stuff!”

“Silly!” She squeezed his arm, and drew back, shamefaced.

His spirits rose.  “You’re a right loving little thing when you wanna be.”

They laughed in duet; and before the plate-glass window of a furniture emporium they paused to regard a monthly-payment display, designed to represent the $49.50 completely furnished sitting-room, parlor, and dining-room of the home felicitous—­a golden-oak room, with an incandescent fire glowing right merrily in the grate; a lamp redly diffusing the light of home; a plaster-of-Paris Cupid shooting a dart from the mantelpiece; and last, two figures of connubial bliss, smiling and waxen, in rocking-chairs, their waxen infant, block-building on the floor, completing the picture.

“Gee! it looks as snug as a bug in a rug!  Looka what it says too:  ’You Get the Girl; We’ll Do the Rest!’ Some little advertisement, ain’t it?  I got the girl all right—­’ain’t I, hon?”