into his mind.  He already was conscious of a sense of protection; he felt curiously that he had the right to protect her.  If he had addressed her, might not others do so?  The thought made his blood boil.  He almost wished that some one would attempt it, that he might assert his right to show her what he was, and thus retrieve himself in her eyes.  Besides, he must know where she lived.  So he followed her at a respectful distance till she ran up the steps of one of the better class of houses and disappeared within.  He was too far off to be able to tell which house it was that she entered, but it was in the same block with Norman Wentworth’s house.

Keith walked the avenue that night for a long time, pondering how he should find and explain his conduct to the young music-teacher, for a music-teacher he had decided she must be.  The next evening, too, he strolled for an hour on the avenue, scanning from a distance every fair passer-by, but he saw nothing of her.

Mrs. Creamer’s balls were, as Norman had once said, the balls of the season.  “Only the rich and the noble were expected.”

Mrs. Creamer’s house was one of the great, new, brown-stone mansions which had been built within the past ten years upon “the avenue.”  It had cost a fortune.  Within, it was so sumptuous that a special work has been “gotten up,” printed, and published by subscription, of its “art treasures,” furniture, and upholstery.

Into this palatial residence—­for flattery could not have called it a home—­Keith was admitted, along with some hundreds of other guests.

To-night it was filled with, not flowers exactly, but with floral decorations; for the roses and orchids were lost in the designs—­garlands, circles, and banks formed of an infinite number of flowers.

Mrs. Creamer, a large, handsome woman with good shoulders, stood just inside the great drawing-room.  She was gorgeously attired and shone with diamonds until the eyes ached with her splendor.  Behind her stood Mr. Creamer, looking generally mightily bored.  Now and then he smiled and shook hands with the guests, at times drawing a friend out of the line back into the rear for a chat, then relapsing again into indifference or gloom.

Keith was presented to Mrs. Creamer.  She only nodded to him.  Keith moved on.  He soon discovered that a cordial greeting to a strange guest was no part of the convention in that society.  One or two acquaintances spoke to him, but he was introduced to no one; so he sauntered about and entertained himself observing the people.  The women were in their best, and it was good.

Keith was passing from one room to another when he became aware that a man, who was standing quite still in the doorway, was, like himself, watching the crowd.  His face was turned away; but something about the compact figure and firm chin was familiar to him.  Keith moved to take a look at his face.  It was Dave Dennison.