I wondered whether or not I was less coarse, less a thing polygamous than these crowding Mormons hurrying out to their sodden temples in the West, because now (since I have volunteered in these pages to tell the truth regarding one man's heart), I must admit that in the hours of dusk I found myself dreaming not of my fiancee back in old Virginia, but of other women seen more recently.

As to the girl of the masked ball, I admitted that she was becoming a fading memory; but this young girl who had thrust through the crowd and broken up our proceedings the other day--the girl with the white lawn gown and the silver gray veil and the tear-stained eyes--in some way, as I was angrily obliged to admit, her face seemed annoyingly to thrust itself again into my consciousness.

I sat near a deck lamp.

Grace Sheraton's letter was in my pocket.

I did not draw it out to read it and re-read it.