“My aunt has black hair and brown eyes, Miss Ella, and weighs one hundred and ninety pounds!” twinkled Susan.

“Kiss her again for that, Brownie, and introduce me,” said a tall, young man at the host’s side easily.  “I’m going to have this, aren’t I, Miss Brown?  Come on, they’re just beginning—­”

Off went Susan, swept deliciously into the tide of enchanting music and motion.  She wasn’t expected to talk, she had no time to worry, she could dance well, and she did.

Kenneth Saunders came up in the pause before the dance was encored, and asked for the “next but one,”—­there were no cards at the Brownings; all over the hall girls were nodding over their partners’ shoulders, in answer to questions, “Next, Louise?” “Next waltz—­one after that, then?” “I’m next, remember!”

Kenneth brought a bashful blonde youth with him, who instantly claimed the next dance.  He did not speak to Susan again until it was over, when, remarking simply, “God, that was life!” he asked for the third ensuing, and surrendered Susan to some dark youth unknown, who said, “Ours?  Now, don’t say no, for there’s suicide in my blood, girl, and I’m a man of few words!”

“I am honestly all mixed up!” Susan laughed.  “I think this is promised—­”

It didn’t appear to matter.  The dark young man took the next two, and Susan found herself in the enchanting position of a person reproached by disappointed partners.  Perhaps there were disappointed and unpopular girls at the dance, perhaps there was heart-burning and disappointment and jealousy; she saw none of it.  She was passed from hand to hand, complimented, flirted with, led into the little curtained niches where she could be told with proper gravity of the feelings her wit and beauty awakened in various masculine hearts.  By twelve o’clock Susan wished that the ball would last a week, she was borne along like a feather on its glittering and golden surface.

Ella was by this time passionately playing the new and fascinating game of bridge whist, in a nearby room, but Browning was still busy, and presently he came across the floor to Susan, and asked her for a dance—­an honor for which she was entirely unprepared, for he seldom danced, and one that she was quick enough to accept at once.

“Perhaps you’ve promised the next?” said Browning.

“If I have,” said the confident Susan, “I hereby call it off.”

“Well,” he said smilingly, pleased.  And although he did not finish the dance, and they presently sat down together, she knew that it had been the evening’s most important event.

“There’s a man coming over from the club, later,” said Mr. Browning, “he’s a wonderful fellow!  Writer, and a sort of cousin of Ella Saunders by the way, or else his wife is.  He’s just on from New York, and for a sort of rest, and he may go on to Japan for his next novel.  Very remarkable fellow!”

“A writer?” Susan looked interested.