But there were other rooms where dancers sat in couples or groups when tired.

He went hastily through all of them, but saw nothing of his wife.

Nor of Doremus.
Mrs.Thornton had gone in search of her.
And Gwynne knew.
This time the hot blood was pounding in his head.

He felt as he imagined madmen did when about to run amok.

Or quite as primitive as any Californian of the surging "Fifties." He was in one of the smaller rooms and he sat down in a corner with his back to the few people in it and endeavored to take hold of himself; the conventional training of several lifetimes and his own intense pride forbade a scene in public.