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The orchestra had finished number two, which was a martial two-step, and begun upon three, a rippling, swinging waltz, when Madeline’s attention was attracted by the grotesque antics of a girl who was sitting, or crouching, on the edge of a circle of light cast by the electric lamp in front of the Hilton House. Madeline watched her strange gestures for a moment, until something in the huddled shape suggested Bob Parker, and assured that all Bob’s performances were interesting, Madeline left her hammock and went over to investigate. The shape proved to be Bob, but a nearer view gave no more clue to her strange behavior.

“Bob,” demanded Madeline, “what in the world are you doing?”

Bob, who appeared to be absolutely engrossed in her odd pursuit, looked up as Madeline spoke and surveyed her calmly. “It’s quite evident what you’re doing,” she said severely. “You’re catching your death of cold in that low dress, and you’re cutting your own house dance. Did you hear Nita Reese inquiring for me?”