“I do not think anybody is going to be that sick to-morrow—­no; and I will find out and report to parents if anybody would try it and not be.  But it is important for the cotillon that we have an even number of so many couples, and if it should happen that someone comes and her partner has sent her a polite note that he has genuine reasons why he cannot come, the note must be handed at once to me, so that I arrange some other partner.  Is all understood?  Yes.  The gentlemen will remember now to allow the ladies plenty of time to reach their houses and prepare to receive calls.  Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your polite attention.”

It was nine blocks to the house of Marjorie Jones; but Penrod did it in less than seven minutes from a flying start—­such was his haste to lay himself and his hand for the cotillon at the feet of one who had so recently spoken unamiably of him in public.  He had not yet learned that the only safe male rebuke to a scornful female is to stay away from her—­especially if that is what she desires.  However, he did not wish to rebuke her; simply and ardently he wished to dance the cotillon with her.  Resentment was swallowed up in hope.

The fact that Miss Jones’ feeling for him bore a striking resemblance to that of Simon Legree for Uncle Tom, deterred him not at all.  Naturally, he was not wholly unconscious that when he should lay his hand for the cotillon at her feet it would be her inward desire to step on it; but he believed that if he were first in the field Marjorie would have to accept.  These things are governed by law.

It was his fond intention to reach her house even in advance of herself, and with grave misgiving he beheld a large automobile at rest before the sainted gate.  Forthwith, a sinking feeling became a portent inside him as little Maurice Levy emerged from the front door of the house.

“’Lo, Penrod!” said Maurice airily.

“What you doin’ in there?” inquired Penrod.

“In where?”

“In Marjorie’s.”

“Well, what shouldn’t I be doin’ in Marjorie’s?” Mr. Levy returned indignantly.  “I was inviting her for my partner in the cotillon—­what you s’pose?”

“You haven’t got any right to!” Penrod protested hotly.  “You can’t do it yet.”

“I did do it yet!” said Maurice.

“You can’t!” insisted Penrod.  “You got to allow them time first.  He said the ladies had to be allowed time to prepare.”

“Well, ain’t she had time to prepare?”

“When?” Penrod demanded, stepping close to his rival threateningly.  “I’d like to know when——­”

“When?” echoed the other with shrill triumph.  “When?  Why, in mamma’s sixty-horse powder limousine automobile, what Marjorie came home with me in!  I guess that’s when!”

An impulse in the direction of violence became visible upon the countenance of Penrod.

“I expect you need some wiping down,” he began dangerously.  “I’ll give you sumpthing to remem——­”