There, in the lights, where waiters were arranging little tables, every one was talking and moving about, noisily, good-humored and happy.

There was a flourish of violins, and then the orchestra swung into a rampant march that pranced like uncurbed cavalry; it stirred the blood of old men with militant bugle calls and blast of horns; it might have heralded the chariot of a flamboyant war god rioting out of sunrise, plumed with youth.

Some quite young men on the veranda made as if they were restive horses champing at the bit and heading a procession, and, from a group near by, loud laughter pealed.
John Harkless lifted to his face the hand that had held hers; there was the faint perfume of her glove.

He kissed his own hand.

Then he put that hand and the other to his forehead, and sank into her chair.
"Let me get back," he said.