The weeks went, and the time neared when dancing at the Institute would end for the season—would end with a bang and a dazzle in a “long night,” when dancing would be kept up shamelessly till something nearer one o’clock than twelve. Johnny counted, first the weeks, then the days, and last the hours. Not because of the dancing, although that was amusing, but because he was to take Nora Sansom with his double ticket. For herself, she may have counted days and hours, or may not; but true it was that she sat up late on several nights, with nun’s veiling and ribbons, making a dress for the occasion—the first fine frock that had been hers. And every night she hid it carefully.

Each dressmaking-class night of late it had been Johnny’s privilege to guard her home-going to the end of that second street—never farther. Twice she had come to dancing, and by that small practice was already Johnny’s superior at the exercise; for a big-shouldered novice of eleven stone two is a slower pupil than any girl of eighteen in the world. And they were very welcome one to the other, and acquaintance bettered day by day. Once Johnny ventured a question about the adventure of the morning, now more than three years ago, but learned little from Miss Sansom’s answer. The lady who was ill was her relation, she said, and she found her; and then she talked of something else.

And so till the evening before the “long night.” It was the rule at the Institute to honour the long night with gloves and white ties, by way of compromise with evening dress; and Johnny bought his gloves with discretion and selected his tie with care. Then he went to the Institute, took a turn or two at the bars, climbed up the rope, and gave another member a lesson with the gloves. Thus refreshed, he dressed himself in his walking clothes, making sure that the tie and the gloves were safe in his pocket, and set out for home. There was no dressmaking class that night, so that he need not wait. But outside and plainly waiting for him, was Nora Sansom herself. Johnny thought she had been crying: as in fact she had.

“Oh, Mr. May,” she said. “I’m very sorry, but—I thought you might be here, and—and—I’m afraid I shan’t be able to come to-morrow!”

“Not come! But—but why?”

“I’m sorry—I’m very sorry, Mr. May; but I can’t tell you—really.”

There was a quiver of the lip, and her voice was a little uneven, as though there were danger of more tears. But Johnny was not disappointed merely; he was also angry, and it was hard to conceal the fact. So he said nothing, but turned and walked a few steps by her side.

“I—hope you won’t mind,” she pursued, uneasy at his silence. “I’m very much disappointed—very much indeed.” And it was plain that she was. “But there’ll be a good many there. And you’ll have plenty of partners.” This last she found a hard thing to say.

“I don’t care how many’ll be there,” Johnny replied. “I shan’t go.”

It was said curtly, almost angrily, but Nora Sansom heard it with an odd little tremor of pleasure. Though she merely said, “But why not? There’s no reason why you should be disappointed too.”

“Anyhow, I’m not going,” he said; and after a pause added: “Perhaps you might ha’ gone if I hadn’t asked you!”

“Oh, I shouldn’t!” she answered, with tears in eyes and voice. “You know I shouldn’t! I never go anywhere!”

Johnny instantly felt himself a brute. “No,” he said. “I know you don’t. I didn’t mean anything unkind. But I won’t go.”

“Do you really mean it?”

“Of course. I’m not going without you.” He might have said something more, but a little group of people came straggling past. And the girl, with her eyes on this group, said the first thing that came to her tongue.

“Where will you go then?”

“Oh anywhere. I don’t know. Walk about, perhaps.”

She looked shyly up in his face, and down again. “I might go for a walk,” she said.

Johnny’s heart gave a great beat. “Alone?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Perhaps.”

But she would be questioned into nothing definite. If she took a walk, she might go in such and such a direction, passing this or that place at seven o’clock, or half-past. That was all. And now she must hurry away, for she had already been too long.

What mattered the dance to Johnny now? A fig for the dance. Let them dance that liked, and let them dance the floor through if it pleased them. But how was it that Nora Sansom could take a walk to-morrow evening, yet could not come to the Institute? That was difficult to understand. Still, hang the dance!

For Nora it would be harder to speak. Howbeit indeed the destruction of the looked-for evening’s gladness, in her first fine frock, had been a bitter thing. But that day her hiding-place had been discovered, and now the dress that had cost such thoughtful design and such hopeful labour was lying, rolled and ticketed, on a pawnbroker’s shelf.