A creature of rounded beauty, peerlessly blonde, her mass of hair elaborately coifed and bound about her pale brow with a fillet of sable velvet.

He saw her first in the dance, sumptuously gowned, regal, yet blithe, yielding as might a goddess to the mortal embrace of Bill Bardin as they fox-trotted to the viol's surge.

He was stricken dumb until the dance ended.

Then he gripped an arm of Spike Brennon, who had stood by him against the wall, "looking 'em over," as Spike had put it.
"Look!" he urged in tones hushed to the wonder of her.

Spike had looked.
"Gee!" breathed the stricken one mechanically.