Lane looked for faces he knew.  On each side of the pillar where he and Blair stood the stream of color and gayety flowed.  Helen and Margaret Maynard went by on the far edge of that stream.  Across the hall he caught a glimpse of the flashing golden beauty of Bessy Bell.  Then near at hand he recognized Fanchon Smith, a petite, smug-faced little brunette, with naked shoulders bulging out of a piebald gown.  She espied Lane and her face froze.  Then there were familiar faces near and far, to which Lane could not attach names.

All at once he became aware that other of his senses besides sight were being stimulated.  He had been hearing without distinguishing what he heard.  And curiously he listened, still with that strange knock of memory at his heart.  Everybody was talking, some low, some high, all in the spirit of the hour.  And in one moment he had heard that which killed the false enchantment.

“Not a chance!...”

“Hot dog—­she’s some Jane!”

“Now to the clinch—­”

“What’ll we do till the next spiel—­”

“Have a shot?——­”

“Boys, it’s only the shank of the evening.  Leave something peppy for the finish.”

“Mame, you look like a million dollars in that rag.”

“She shakes a mean shimmy, believe me....”

“That egg!  Not on your life!”

“Cut the next with Ned.  We’ll sneak down and take a ride in my car....”

“Oh, spiffy!”

Lane’s acutely strained attention was diverted by Blair’s voice.

“Look who’s with my sister Margie.”

Lane turned to look through an open space in the dispersing stream.  Blair’s sister was passing with Dick Swann.  Elegantly and fastidiously attired, the young millionaire appeared to be attentive to his partner.  Margaret stood out rather strikingly from the other girls near her by reason of the simplicity and modesty of her dress.  She did not look so much bored as discontented.  Lane saw her eyes rove to and fro from the entrance of the hall.  When she espied Lane she nodded and spoke with a smile and made an evident move toward him, but was restrained by Swann.  He led her past Lane and Blair without so much as glancing in their direction.  Lane heard Blair swear.

“Dare, if my mother throws Marg at that—­slacker, I’ll block the deal if it’s the last thing I ever do,” he declared, violently.

“And I’ll help you,” replied Lane, instantly.

“I know Margie hates him.”

“Blair, your sister is in love with Holt Dalrymple.”

“No!  Not really?  Thought that was only a boy-and-girl affair....  Aha! the nigger music again!  Let’s find a seat, Dare.”

Saxophone, trombone, piccolo, snare-drum and other barbaric instruments opened with a brazen defiance of music, and a vibrant assurance of quick, raw, strong sounds.  Lane himself felt the stirring effect upon his nerves.  He had difficulty in keeping still.  From the lines of chairs along the walls and from doors and alcoves rushed the gay-colored throng to leap, to close, to step, to rock and sway, until the floor was full of a moving mass of life.