But to-night the pumpkin had turned to a coach and six.  Terry O’Sullivan was a victorious Prince Charming, and Maggie Toole winged her first butterfly flight.  And though our tropes of fairyland be mixed with those of entomology they shall not spill one drop of ambrosia from the rose-crowned melody of Maggie’s one perfect night.

The girls besieged her for introductions to her “fellow.”  The Clover Leaf young men, after two years of blindness, suddenly perceived charms in Miss Toole.  They flexed their compelling muscles before her and bespoke her for the dance.

Thus she scored; but to Terry O’Sullivan the honours of the evening fell thick and fast.  He shook his curls; he smiled and went easily through the seven motions for acquiring grace in your own room before an open window ten minutes each day.  He danced like a faun; he introduced manner and style and atmosphere; his words came trippingly upon his tongue, and—­he waltzed twice in succession with the paper-box girl that Dempsey Donovan brought.

Dempsey was the leader of the association.  He wore a dress suit, and could chin the bar twice with one hand.  He was one of “Big Mike” O’Sullivan’s lieutenants, and was never troubled by trouble.  No cop dared to arrest him.  Whenever be broke a pushcart man’s head or shot a member of the Heinrick B. Sweeney Outing and Literary Association in the kneecap, an officer would drop around and say: 

“The Cap’n ’d like to see ye a few minutes round to the office whin ye have time, Dempsey, me boy.”

But there would be sundry gentlemen there with large gold fob chains and black cigars; and somebody would tell a funny story, and then Dempsey would go back and work half an hour with the six-pound dumbbells.  So, doing a tight-rope act on a wire stretched across Niagara was a safe terpsichorean performance compared with waltzing twice with Dempsey Donovan’s paper-box girl.  At 10 o’clock the jolly round face of “Big Mike” O’Sullivan shone at the door for five minutes upon the scene.  He always looked in for five minutes, smiled at the girls and handed out real perfectos to the delighted boys.

Dempsey Donovan was at his elbow instantly, talking rapidly.  “Big Mike” looked carefully at the dancers, smiled, shook his head and departed.

The music stopped.  The dancers scattered to the chairs along the walls.  Terry O’Sullivan, with his entrancing bow, relinquished a pretty girl in blue to her partner and started back to find Maggie.  Dempsey intercepted him in the middle of the floor.

Some fine instinct that Rome must have bequeathed to us caused nearly every one to turn and look at them—­there was a subtle feeling that two gladiators had met in the arena.  Two or three Give and Takes with tight coat sleeves drew nearer.

“One moment, Mr. O’Sullivan,” said Dempsey.  “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.  Where did you say you live?”