An indifferent swimmer, Donald Ware¹ had avoided the afternoon sport in the tank; but after dinner, somewhat to the irritation² of Graham, the violinist monopolized³ Paula at the piano. New guests, with the casual expectedness of the Big House, had drifted in—­a lawyer, by name Adolph Well, who had come to confer with Dick over some big water-right suit; Jeremy Braxton, straight from Mexico, Dick’s general superintendent⁴ of the Harvest Group, which bonanza⁵, according to Jeremy Braxton, was as “unpetering” as ever; Edwin O’Hay, a red-headed Irish musical and dramatic critic; and Chauncey Bishop⁶, editor and owner of the San Francisco Dispatch, and a member of Dick’s class and frat, as Graham gleaned⁸.  
Dick had started a boisterous⁹ gambling¹⁰ game which he called “Horrible Fives,” wherein, although excitement ran high and players plunged¹¹, the limit was ten cents, and, on a lucky coup¹², the transient banker might win or lose as high as ninety cents, such coup requiring at least ten minutes to play out. This game went on at a big table at the far end of the room, accompanied by much owing and borrowing of small sums and an incessant¹³ clamor for change.
 
With nine players, the game was crowded, and Graham, rather than draw cards, casually¹⁴ and occasionally backed Ernestine’s cards, the while he glanced down the long room at the violinist and Paula Forrest absorbed in Beethoven Symphonies and Delibes’ Ballets. Jeremy Braxton was demanding raising the limit to twenty cents, and Dick, the heaviest loser, as he averred¹⁵, to the tune¹⁶ of four dollars and sixty cents, was plaintively¹⁷ suggesting the starting of a “kitty” in order that some one should pay for the lights and the sweeping¹⁸ out of the place in the morning, when Graham, with a profound sigh at the loss of his last bet—­a nickel which he had had to pay double—­announced to Ernestine that he was going to take a turn around the room to change his luck.
 
“I prophesied¹⁹ you would,” she told him under her breath.
 
“What?” he asked.
 
She glanced significantly in Paula’s direction.
 
“Just for that I simply must go down there now,” he retorted.
 
“Can’t dast decline a dare,” she taunted²⁰.
 
“If it were a dare I wouldn’t dare do it.”
 
“In which case I dare you,” she took up.
 
He shook his head: “I had already made up my mind to go right down there to that one spot and cut that fiddler out of the running. You can’t dare me out of it at this late stage. Besides, there’s Mr. O’Hay waiting for you to make your bet.”
 
Ernestine rashly laid ten cents, and scarcely knew whether she won or lost, so intent was she on watching Graham go down the room, although she did know that Bert Wainwright had not been unobservant of her gaze and its direction. On the other hand, neither she nor Bert, nor any other at the table, knew that Dick’s quick-glancing eyes, sparkling with merriment while his lips chaffed absurdities²¹ that made them all laugh, had missed no portion of the side play.
 
Ernestine, but little taller than Paula, although hinting of a plus roundness to come, was a sun-healthy, clear blonde, her skin sprayed with the almost transparent²² flush of maidenhood²³ at eighteen. To the eye, it seemed almost that one could see through the pink daintiness of fingers, hand, wrist, and forearm, neck and cheek. And to this delicious transparency of rose and pink, was added a warmth of tone that did not escape Dick’s eyes as he glimpsed her watch Evan Graham move down the length of room. Dick knew and classified her wild imagined dream or guess, though the terms of it were beyond his divination²⁴.
 
What she saw was what she imagined was the princely walk of Graham, the high, light, blooded carriage of his head, the delightful²⁵ carelessness of the gold-burnt, sun-sanded hair that made her fingers ache to be into with caresses²⁶ she for the first time knew were possible of her fingers.
 
Nor did Paula, during an interval²⁷ of discussion with the violinist in which she did not desist from stating her criticism of O’Hay’s latest criticism of Harold Bauer, fail to see and keep her eyes on Graham’s progress. She, too, noted²⁸ with pleasure his grace of movement, the high, light poise²⁹ of head, the careless hair, the clear bronze of the smooth cheeks, the splendid forehead, the long gray eyes with the hint of drooping³⁰ lids and boyish sullenness³¹ that fled before the smile with which he greeted her.
 
She had observed that smile often since her first meeting with him. It was an irresistible³² smile, a smile that lighted the eyes with the radiance of good fellowship and that crinkled the corners into tiny, genial³³ lines. It was provocative³⁴ of smiles, for she found herself smiling a silent greeting in return as she continued stating to Ware her grievance³⁵ against O’Hay’s too-complacent praise of Bauer.
 
But her engagement was tacitly with Donald Ware at the piano, and with no more than passing speech, she was off and away in a series of Hungarian dances that made Graham marvel³⁶ anew as he loafed and smoked in a window-seat.
 
He marveled at the proteanness of her, at visions of those nimble fingers guiding and checking The Fop, swimming and paddling in submarine crypts, and, falling in swan-like flight through forty feet of air, locking just above the water to make the diver’s head-protecting arch of arm.
 
In decency³⁷, he lingered but few minutes, returned to the gamblers, and put the entire table in a roar with a well-acted Yiddisher’s chagrin³⁸ and passion at losing entire nickels every few minutes to the fortunate and chesty mine superintendent from Mexico.
 
Later, when the game of Horrible Fives broke up, Bert and Lute³⁹ Desten spoiled the Adagio⁴⁰ from Beethoven’s Sonata⁴¹ Pathetique by exaggeratedly ragging to it in what Dick immediately named “The Loving Slow-Drag,” till Paula broke down in a gale⁴² of laughter and ceased from playing.
 
New groupings occurred. A bridge table formed with Weil, Rita, Bishop, and Dick. Donald Ware was driven from his monopoly of Paula by the young people under the leadership of Jeremy Braxton; while Graham and O’Hay paired off in a window-seat and O’Hay talked shop.
 
After a time, in which all at the piano had sung Hawaiian hulas, Paula sang alone to her own accompaniment. She sang several German love-songs in succession, although it was merely for the group about her and not for the room; and Evan Graham, almost to his delight, decided⁴⁴ that at last he had found a weakness in her. She might be a magnificent pianist, horsewoman, diver, and swimmer, but it was patent, despite her singing throat, that she was not a magnificent singer. This conclusion he was quickly compelled to modify. A singer she was, a consummate⁴⁵ singer. Weakness was only comparative after all. She lacked the magnificent voice. It was a sweet voice, a rich voice, with the same warm-fibered thrill of her laugh; but the volume so essential to the great voice was not there. Ear and voice seemed effortlessly true, and in her singing were feeling, artistry, training, intelligence. But volume—­it was scarcely a fair average, was his judgment⁴⁶.
 
But quality—­there he halted. It was a woman’s voice. It was haunted with richness of sex. In it resided all the temperament⁴⁷ in the world—­ with all the restraint of discipline, was the next step of his analysis. He had to admire the way she refused to exceed the limitations of her voice. In this she achieved triumphs.
 
And, while he nodded absently to O’Hay’s lecturette on the state of the—­opera, Graham fell to wondering if Paula Forrest, thus so completely the mistress of her temperament, might not be equally mistress of her temperament in the deeper, passional ways. There was a challenge there—­based on curiosity, he conceded, but only partly so based; and, over and beyond, and, deeper and far beneath, a challenge to a man made in the immemorial image of man.
 
It was a challenge that bade him pause, and even look up and down the great room and to the tree-trunked roof far above, and to the flying gallery hung with the spoils of the world, and to Dick Forrest, master of all this material achievement and husband of the woman, playing bridge, just as he worked, with all his heart, his laughter ringing loud as he caught Rita in renig. For Graham had the courage not to shun⁴⁸ the ultimate connotations. Behind the challenge in his speculations⁵⁰ lurked⁵¹ the woman. Paula Forrest was splendidly, deliciously woman, all woman, unusually woman. From the blow between the eyes of his first striking sight of her, swimming the great stallion in the pool, she had continued to witch-ride his man’s imagination. He was anything but unused to women; and his general attitude was that of being tired of the mediocre⁵² sameness of them. To chance upon the unusual woman was like finding the great pearl in a lagoon⁵³ fished out by a generation of divers⁵⁴.
 
“Glad to see you’re still alive,” Paula laughed to him, a little later.
 
She was prepared to depart with Lute for bed. A second bridge quartet had been arranged—­Ernestine, Bert, Jeremy Braxton, and Graham; while O’Hay and Bishop were already deep in a bout⁴³ of two-handed pinochle.
 
“He’s really a charming Irishman when he keeps off his one string,” Paula went on.
 
“Which, I think I am fair, is music,” Graham said.
 
“And on music he is insufferable,” Lute observed. “It’s the only thing he doesn’t know the least thing about. He drives one frantic⁵⁵.&............