Wickersham, who, so long as Keith remained with Miss Huntington, had kept aloof, and was about to say good night to Mrs. Wentworth, had, on seeing Keith turn away, followed Mrs. Wentworth.

Every one was still chatting of the episode of the young virago.

“Well, what did you think of your friend’s friend?” asked Wickersham of Lois.

“Of whom?”

“Of your friend Mr. Keith’s young lady.  She is an old flame of his,” he said, turning to Mrs. Wentworth and speaking in an undertone, just loud enough for Lois to hear.  “They have run her out of New Leeds, and I think he is trying to force her on the people here.  He has cheek enough to do anything; but I think to-night will about settle him.”

“I do not know very much about such things; but I think she dances very well,” said Lois, with heightened color, moved to defend the girl under an instinct of opposition to Wickersham.

“So your friend thinks, or thought some time ago,” said Wickersham.  “My dear girl, she can’t dance at all.  She is simply a disreputable young woman, who has been run out of her own town, as she ought to be run out of this, as an impostor, if nothing else.”  He turned to Mrs. Wentworth:  “A man who brought such a woman to a place like this ought to be kicked out of town.”

“If you are speaking of Mr. Keith, I don’t believe that of him,” said Lois, coldly.

Wickersham looked at her for a moment.  A curious light was in his eyes as he said: 

“I am not referring to any one.  I am simply generalizing.”  He shrugged his shoulders and turned away.

As Mrs. Wentworth and Lois entered their carriage, a gentleman was helping some one into a hack just behind Mrs. Wentworth’s carriage.  The light fell on them at the moment that Lois stepped forward, and she recognized Mr. Keith and the dancer, Mile.  Terpsichore.  He was handing her in with all the deference that he would have shown the highest lady in the land.

Lois Huntington drove home in a maze.  Life appeared to have changed twice for her in a single evening.  Out of that crowd of strangers had come one who seemed to be a part of her old life.  They had taken each other up just where they had parted.  The long breach in their lives had been bridged.  He had seemed the old friend and champion of her childhood, who, since her aunt had revived her recollection of him, had been a sort of romantic hero in her dreams.  Their meeting had been such as she had sometimes pictured to herself it would be.  She believed him finer, higher, than others.  Then, suddenly, she had found that the vision was but an idol of clay.  All that her aunt had said of him had been dashed to pieces in a trice.

He was not worthy of her notice.  He was not a gentleman.  He was what Mr. Wickersham had called him.  He had boasted to her of his intimacy with a common dancing-girl.  He had left her to fly to her and escort her home.