new gesture so possessive that it shot a quick start through Gregg.
"Bill's!" he cried to himself, sharply. "Bill wouldn't touch her that way unless he has her. Bill's! She's Bill's!" For a moment he could feel nothing; then he tried to pull himself together and argue!
"Well, that's good, isn't it? Bill had to have her; and Bill—he's the marrying kind; he'll give her a home; make one for her; and keep it clean, too. That's what she wants, of course; a home—like hers; like what she thinks it is; and a damn good steady husband she can depend on; Bill! Now I—I'd be a bird for her, wouldn't I? I know; so I don't care—damn it, I don't care. She's just the girl I like a lot just now; an awfully good fellow. But there's more. That's a rotten lie; no one like her; never was; never will be; no one to look at you in just her way; and speak, her way, right at you; into you. She'll still do that, of course; I'll see her—a lot, if I'm not a damned quitter. She'll be Bill's."
He had never before that moment actually thought of that; and it brought him up short with a start which must have been visible. But the music stopped just then; there was the storm of clapping for an encore; the music was sure to start again, but Marjorie and Billy were leaving the floor. Gregg soon lost sight of Marjorie in the crowd and, in a minute, even Billy's tall head disappeared and Gregg knew they had reached the stairs.
Mrs. Hale had failed to observe them dancing, and now she did not miss them; she wanted to know which of the Raphaels in the Louvre Gregg preferred. He was entirely innocent of the fact that Raphaels belonged in the Louvre, which he had never attempted to
