“How is Fischer?” asked Geary.

Beale, Jr., pulled him over into a corner, talking in a low voice.  “He’s even worse than yesterday,” he answered.  “I think we shall have to give him a vacation, and that’s what I want to speak to you about.  If you can, Geary, I should like to have you take his place for a while, at least until we get through with this contract case.  I don’t know about Fischer.  He’s sick so often, I’m afraid we may have to let him go altogether.”

Suddenly the orchestra downstairs broke out into a clash of harmony and then swung off with the beat and cadence of a waltz.  The dance was beginning; a great bustle and hurrying commenced about the dressing-rooms and at the head of the stairs; everybody went down.  In the front parlour by the mantel Henrietta Vance and Turner stood on either side of Mrs. Vance, receiving, shaking hands, and laughing and talking with the different guests who came up singly, in couples, or in noisy groups.

No one was dancing yet.  The orchestra stopped with a flourish of the cornet, and at once a great crowding and pushing began amidst a vast hum of talk.  The cards were being filled up, a swarm of men gathered about each of the more popular girls, passing her card from hand to hand while she smiled upon them all helplessly and good-naturedly.  The dance-cards had run short and some of the men were obliged to use their visiting cards; with these in one hand and the stump of a pencil in the other, they ran about from group to group, pushing, elbowing, and calling over one another’s heads like brokers in a stock exchange.

Geary, however, walked about calmly, smiling contentedly, very good-humoured.  From time to time he stopped such a one of the hurrying, excited men as he knew and showed him his card made out weeks before, saying, “Ah, how’s that? I am all fixed; made all my engagements at the last one of these affairs, even up to six extras.  That’s the way you want to rustle.”

Young Haight was very popular; everywhere the girls nodded and smiled at him, many even saving a place on their cards for him before he had asked.

Ellis took advantage of the confusion to disappear.  He went up into the deserted dressing-room, chose a cigar, unbuttoned his vest and sat down in one chair, putting his feet upon another.  The hum of the dance came to him in a prolonged and soothing murmur and he enjoyed it in some strange way of his own, listening and smoking, stretched out at ease in the deserted dressing-room.

Vandover went up to Turner Ravis smiling and holding out his hand.  She seemed to be curiously embarrassed when she saw him, and did not smile back at him.  He asked to see her card, but she drew her hand quickly from his, telling him that she was going home early and was not dancing at all, that in fact she had to “receive” instead of dance.  It was evident to Vandover that he had done something to displease her, and he quickly concluded that it was because he had not asked her to go with him that evening.