“Well, sir, what do you think of me?” she demanded. “Have I changed much?”      

       “Changed? Why, it's magic, Maggie! I left you a schoolgirl; you're a woman now. And a wonder!”      

       “You think so?” She flushed with pride and pleasure, and a wildness of spirit possessed her and demanded expression in action. She freed her left hand and slipped it over Larry's shoulder. “Come on—let's two-step.”      

       “But, Maggie, I've forgotten.”      

       “Come on!”      

       Instantly she was dragging him over the scanty floor space. But after a moment he halted, protesting.     

       “These prison brogans were not intended by their builders for such work. If you've got to dance, you'll have to work it out of your system alone.”      

       “All right!”      

       At once, in the midst of the dingy room, humming the music, she was doing Carmen's dance—wild, provocative, alluring. It was not a remarkable performance in any professionally technical sense; but it had vivid       personality; she was light, lithe, graceful, flashing with color and spirits.     

       “Maggie!” he exclaimed, when she had finished and stood before him glowing and panting. “Good! Where did you learn that?”      

       “In the chorus of a cabaret revue.”      

       “Is that what you're doing now, working in a chorus?”      

       “No. Barney and father said a chorus was no place for me.” She drew nearer. “Oh, Larry, I've such a lot to tell you.”      

       “Go on.”      

       “Well”—she cocked her head impishly—“I've been going to school.”      

       “Going to school! Where?”      

       “Lots of places. Just now I'm going to school at the Ritzmore Hotel.”      

       “At the Ritzmore Hotel!” He stared at her bewildered. “What are you learning there?”      

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