Dysart’s temples reddened.

“Yes, and then some!...  I understand that you have given yourself the privilege of discussing my financial affairs in public.  Have you?”

Duane said in a dull voice:  “The Algonquin Trust was mentioned, I believe.  I did say that you are a director.”

“You said I was hard hit and that the Clearing House meant to weed out a certain element that I represented in New York.”

“I did not happen to say that,” said Duane wearily, “but another man did.”

“Oh. You didn’t say it?”

“No.  I don’t lie, Dysart.”

“Then add to that negative virtue by keeping your mouth shut,” said Dysart between his teeth, “or you’ll have other sorts of suits on your hands.  I warn you now to keep clear of me and mine.”

“Just what is yours?” inquired Duane patiently.

“You’ll find out if you touch it.”

“Oh.  Is—­is Miss Quest included by any hazard?  Because if the right chance falls my way, I shall certainly interfere.”

“If you do, I shall begin suit for alienation within twenty-four hours.”

“Oh, no, you won’t.  You’re horribly afraid, Dysart.  This grimacing of yours is fear.  All you want is to be let alone, to burrow through the society that breeds your sort.  Like a maggot in a chestnut you feed on what breeds you.  I don’t care.  Feed!  What bred you is as rotten as you are.  I’m done with it—­done with all this,” turning his head toward the flare of light.  “Go on and burrow.  What nourishes you can look out for itself....  Only”—­he wheeled around and looked into the darkness where, unseen, Sylvia Quest awaited him—­“only, in this set, the young have less chance than the waifs of the East Side.”

He walked slowly up to Dysart and struck him across the face with open palm.

“Break with that girl or I’ll break your head,” he said.

Dysart was down on the leaves, struggling up to his knees, then to his feet, the thin blood running across his chin.  The next instant he sprang at Duane, who caught him by both arms and forced him savagely into quivering inertia.

“Don’t,” he said.  “You’re only a thing that dances.  Don’t move, I tell you....  Wipe that blood off and go and set the silly girl’s heart at rest....  And keep away from her afterward.  Do you hear?”

He set his teeth and shook him so wickedly that Dysart’s head rolled and his wig fell off.

“I know something of your sloppy record,” he continued, still shaking him; “I know about your lap-dog fawning around Miss Seagrave.  It is generally understood that you’re as sexless as any other of your kind.  I thought so, too.  Now I know you.  Keep clear of me and mine, Dysart....  And that will be about all.”

He left him planted against a tree and walked toward the lights once more, breathing heavily and in an ugly mood.

On the edge of the glade, just outside the lantern glow, he stood sombre, distrait, inspecting the torn lace on his sleeve, while all around him people were unmasking amid cries of surprise and shouts of laughter, and the orchestra was sounding a march, and multicoloured Bengal fires rolled in clouds from the water’s edge, turning the woods to a magic forest and the people to tinted wraiths.