If she had been told that the Friday Night Social Club met weekly in Knights of Pythias Hall to dance those sinister new dances that the city papers were so outspoken about she would have considered it an affair of the underworld, about which the less said the letter.
Had it been disclosed to her that Wilbur Cowan, under the chaperonage of Edward--Spike--Brennon, 133 lbs., ringside, had become an addict of these affairs, a determined and efficient exponent of the weird new steps--"a good thing for y'r footwork," Spike had said--she would have considered he had plumbed the profoundest depths of social ignominy.

Yet so it was.

Each Friday night he danced.

He liked it, and while he disported himself from the lightest of social motives love came to him; the world was suddenly a place of fixed rainbows, and dancing--with her--no longer a gladsome capering, but a holy rite.
On a certain Friday evening unstarred by any portent she had burst upon his yielding eyes.

Instantly he could have told Winona more than she would ever know about love at first sight.