“I think probably he feels badly because she’s dancing with one of the other boys,” said his wife, mildly.

“Then why can’t he dance with somebody else himself?” Mr. Parcher inquired, testily.  “Instead of standing around like a calf looking out of the butcher’s wagon!  By George! he looks as if he was just going to moo!”

“Of course he ought to be dancing with somebody,” Mrs. Parcher remarked, thoughtfully.  “There are one or two more girls than boys here, and he’s the only boy not dancing.  I believe I’ll—­” And, not stopping to complete the sentence, she rose and walked across the interval of grass to William.  “Good evening, William,” she said, pleasantly.  “Don’t you want to dance?”

“Ma’am?” said William, blankly, and the eyes he turned upon here were glassy with anxiety.  He was still determined to dance on and on and on with Miss Pratt, but he realized that there were great obstacles to be overcome before he could begin the process.  He was feverishly awaiting the next interregnum between dances—­then he would show Joe Bullitt and Johnnie Watson and Wallace Banks, and some others who had set themselves in his way, that he was “abs’lutely not goin’ to stand it!”

He couldn’t stand it, he told himself, even if he wanted to—­not to-night!  He had “been through enough” in order to get to the party, he thought, thus defining sufferings connected with his costume, and now that he was here he would dance and dance, on and on, with Miss Pratt.  Anything else was unthinkable.

He had to!

“Don’t you want to dance?” Mrs. Parcher repeated.  “Have you looked around for a girl without a partner?”

He continued to stare at her, plainly having no comprehension of her meaning.

“Girl?” he echoed, in a tone of feeble inquiry.

She smiled and nodded, taking his arm.  “You come with me,” she said.  “I’ll fix you up!”

William suffered her to conduct him across the yard.  Intensely preoccupied with what he meant to do as soon as the music paused, he was somewhat hazy, but when he perceived that he was being led in the direction of a girl, sitting solitary under one of the maple-trees, the sudden shock of fear aroused his faculties.

“What—­where—­” he stammered, halting and seeking to detach himself from his hostess.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I got—­I got to—­” William began, uneasily.  “I got to—­”

His purpose was to excuse himself on the ground that he had to find a man and tell him something important before the next dance, for in the confusion of the moment his powers refused him greater originality.  But the vital part of his intended excuse remained unspoken, being disregarded and cut short, as millions of other masculine diplomacies have been, throughout the centuries, by the decisive action of ladies.

Miss Boke had been sitting under the mapletree for a long time—­so long, indeed, that she was acquiring a profound distaste for forestry and even for maple syrup.  In fact, her state of mind was as desperate, in its way, as William’s; and when a hostess leads a youth (in almost perfectly fitting conventional black) toward a girl who has been sitting alone through dance after dance, that girl knows what that youth is going to have to do.