“Has he asked Tony to marry him?”

“I don’t think so.  I doubt if he ever does, so long as he doesn’t know who he is.  He is very proud and sensitive, and has an almost superstitious veneration for the Holiday tradition.  Being a Holiday in New England is a little like being of royal blood, you know.  I don’t believe you will ever have to make a corpse of poor Dick, Alan.”

“I don’t mind making corpses.  I rather think I should enjoy making one of him.  I detest the long, lean animal.”

Had Alan known it, Dick had taken quite as thorough a dislike to his magnificent self.  At that very moment indeed, as he and Tony strolled in the garden, Dick had remarked that he wished Tony wouldn’t dance with “that Massey.”

“And why not?” she demanded, always quick to resent dictatorial airs.

“Because he makes you—­well—­conspicuous.  He hasn’t any business to dance with you the way he does.  You aren’t a professional but he makes you look like one.”

“Thanks.  A left-hand compliment but still a compliment!”

“It wasn’t meant for one,” said Dick soberly.  “I hate it.  Of course you dance wonderfully yourself.  It isn’t just dancing with you.  It is poetry, stuff of dreams and all the rest of it.  I can see that, and I know it must be a temptation to have a chance at a partner like that.  Lord!  Tony!  No man in every day life has a right to dance the way he can.  He out-classes Castle.  I hate that kind of a man—­half woman.”

“There isn’t anything of a woman about Alan, Dick.  He is the most virulently male man I ever knew.”

Dick fell silent at that.  Presently he began again.

“Tony, please don’t be offended at what I am going to say.  I know it is none of my business, but I wish you wouldn’t keep on with this affair with Massey.”

“Why not?” There was an aggressive sparkle in Tony’s eyes.

“People are talking.  I heard them last night when you were dancing with him.  It hurts.  Alan Massey isn’t the kind of a man for a girl like you to flirt with.”

“Stuff and nonsense, Dicky!  Any kind of a man is the kind for a girl to flirt with, if she keeps her head.”

“But Tony, honestly, this Massey hasn’t a good reputation.”

“How do you know?”

“Newspaper men know a great deal.  They have to.  Besides, Alan Massey is a celebrity.  He is written up in our files.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if he should die to-morrow all we would have to do would be to put in the last flip.  The biographical data is all on the card ready to shoot.”

“Dear me.  That’s rather gruesome, isn’t it?” shivered Tony.  “I’m glad I’m not a celebrity.  I’d hate to be stuck down on your old flies.  Will I get on Alan’s card if I keep on flirting with him?”

“Good Lord!  I should hope not.”

“I suppose I wouldn’t be in very good company.  I don’t mean Alan.  I mean—­his ladies.”