“Perfectly, Mr. Dodge,” replied Laura in her even tones.  “How do you do?”

She did not offer her hand; within the limits of perfectly good breeding it was her privilege to withhold it without slight or offence.

“How have you been since the old High School days?”

“Perfectly well, thank you.”

“And you, Mrs. Bentley?” asked Dodge, again bowing before her mother.

“Very well, thank you, Mr. Dodge,” replied Mrs. Bentley, who subtly took her cue from her daughter.

“Now, Miss Bentley, you are not going to leave a broken heart behind you at West Point?” urged Bert softly.  “You are going to let me write my name on your dance card—–­even if only once.”

“You should have spoken earlier, Mr. Dodge,” laughed Laura.  “Every dance, if not already taken, is good as promised.”

Yearling Dodge could not conceal his chagrin.  At that moment Belle Meade returned with one of the tallest cadets on the floor.

Bert greeted her effusively.  Belle returned the greeting as evenly and as perfectly as Laura had done—–­but nothing more.

“Miss Meade, you are going to be tenderhearted enough to flatter me with one dance?” begged Dodge.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” replied Belle, in a tone of well-bred regret that carried with it nothing more than courtesy, “but I’m promised for every dance.”

Cadets Prescott and Sennett had turned slightly aside.  So had Belle’s late partner.  Dodge knew that they were laughing inwardly at his Waterloo.  And Anstey and Greg, who stood by at this moment, appeared to be wearing inscrutable grins.  Dodge made his adieus hurriedly, walking up the ballroom just ahead of Furlong, who also had observed.  Bert felt sure so many of his comrades had seen and enjoyed his plight that his fury was at white heat as he stepped just outside the ballroom.

Furlong came after him, looking at him quizzically.

“We staggers have a hard time of it, eh, Dodge?” grinned Mr. Furlong.

“Are you referring to the two femmes I was just billing?” shot out Dodge impetuously.  “Oh, they’re very inconsequential girls!”

Mr. Furlong drew himself up very straight, his eyes flashing fire.

“You dog!” he exclaimed, in utter disgust.

Yearling Dodge turned ghastly white.

“You—–­you didn’t understand me.  Let me explain,” he urged.

“You can’t explain a remark like yours,” muttered Mr. Furlong over his shoulder, as he turned his back on Bert.

To be called a “dog” has but one sequence in cadet world.  Bert Dodge had to send his seconds to Mr. Furlong before taps.  Though they must have loathed their task, had they known the whole story, the seconds made arrangements with Mr. Furlong’s representatives.

Before reveille the next morning Bert Dodge stood up for nearly two rounds before the sledgehammer fists of Mr. Furlong.