the attraction for Marcia.  His looks, his topics, his appetites were animal and gross.  He drank continuously, smoked after his salad, and monopolized the guest of the evening to the complete exclusion of the others.  Fragments of their talk reached me, of which I understood a little—­Greek to Jerry.  Miss Gore sat calmly through it all, leading Jerry into the conversation at propitious moments and out of it when it threatened incomprehension.

There is a kind of charity of the dinner table and ballroom finer, I think, than the mere kindness of giving, finer because it requires discretion, nobler because it requires self-elimination.  The more I saw of Miss Gore the more deeply was I impressed by her many amiable qualities.  She had an ear for Jerry, but aware of my complete elimination by the rowdy upon my left, found time to relieve the awkwardness of my situation and contribute something to the pleasure of what for me would otherwise have been a very unenjoyable repast.

But when dinner was over, to my great surprise, I found myself alone with the girl Marcia.  I have no very distinct notion of the means by which she accomplished this feat, remembering only hazily that we all ambled over to the conservatory, where a particular variety of orchid seemed to interest the girl.  And there we were, I explaining and she listening, the others off somewhere near the entrance to the gymnasium, where I heard Lloyd’s voice in bored monotone.  I was quite sure in a moment that she hadn’t managed to get me there to talk orchids, and I felt a vague sense of discomfort at her nearness.  I have given the impression that her eyes were cold.  As I looked into them I saw that I had been mistaken.  In the dim light they seemed illumined at their greater depth by a hidden fire.  She fixed her gaze upon my face and moved ever so slightly toward me.  You may think it strange after what I have written when I say that at this moment I felt a doubt rising in me as to whether or not I might have done this girl an injustice, for her smile was frank, her air gracious, her tone friendly.

“Oh, Mr. Canby,” she said in her even voice, “I’ve wanted to tell you what a wonderful thing it is that you have created—­to thank you for Jerry.  He’s a gift, Mr. Canby, refreshing like the rain to thirsty flowers.  You can’t know what meeting a man like Jerry means to a woman like me.  I don’t think you possibly can.”

“What does it mean to you?” I asked.

“It means a new point of view on life, a thing scarce enough in this day when all existence is either sordid or vicious.  I had reached a Slough of Despond, Mr. Canby, weary of the attainable, not strong enough or clever enough or courageous enough to defy criticism and obey the small voice that urged.  I was sick with self-analysis, filled to the brim with modern philosophies—­”

“I understand,” I broke in with a smile, which seemed to come in spite of me.  “There’s no medicine for that.”