CHAPTER XXII
THE WHITE DOVE
The dinner-party at the inn continued to be a merry one.
“I’m sorry it rains,” said Mrs. Bruce, looking at the dewy panes when at last they rose from table. “I wanted you to see how pleasant the outlook is from the verandas.”
The proprietor passed near them as they moved into the spacious living-room of the inn.
“Why couldn’t you have a pleasant evening for us, Mr. Beebe?” asked Mrs. Bruce.
“Sorry I couldn’t,” he returned. “I’m goin’ to make up for it the best I can, though. I’ve got an entertainment for you if you’ll take your friends to that other end o’ the room.”
“Music!” groaned Irving. “I feel in my bones that somebody is going to sing. Us for the porch, Nixie.”
This party had been last to leave the dining-room, and already a large group of guests had gathered in the living-room, and were waiting. Irving was already taking long, quiet strides away from the scene of danger when Robert caught him by the arm.
“Heavens, Brute!” he gasped. “Look there! Is it – or isn’t it!”
Irving turned, and beheld at the other end of the room Rosalie Vincent, dressed in white, standing quietly, looking about her and smiling a little as if in question of her audience, and wondering what she should do for them.
Irving’s heart gave the most acrobatic bound of its existence. He stood fixed in his tracks.
“Do you see who that is, mother?” inquired Robert, leaning over the ladies.
Mrs. Bruce’s busy eyes sought her lorgnette.
Helen Maynard was first to realize who it was that stood there tall and fair in the fleecy white gown, with the golden coronet of her hair shining as her only ornament, and her bare throat and arms, round and slender against a dark background.
“Most extraordinary!” exclaimed Mrs. Nixon. “I never saw such a resemblance.”
She looked over at her brother in a neighboring chair. He was smoothing his mustache; and he nodded at her in reply.
“Why, it is Hebe!” declared Robert, and his voice cracked high. “I never saw anything so lovely in my life.”
“How did it happen?” inquired Mrs. Bruce. She looked at Irving. His face was tense and scowling. “Tell me, Irving,” she demanded in low tones. “How in the world did she get here?”
“How should I know?” he returned; and so irefully that Mrs. Bruce stared at him. Why in the world should it make him angry?
Irving’s heart kept on its quickened pace. So this was what Betsy meant by saying he was likely to see her; why she had adjured him to keep away from her. She had said – Irving’s eyes devoured the white dove; but Rosalie began to speak, and again her voice was music.
“I scarcely know what you would like to hear this rainy evening,” she said, “but I think I will begin by going back to first principles, and telling you the story of Red Riding Hood.”
Mrs. Bruce’s lips would scarcely meet.
“What self-possession!” she murmured; and then for a time all speculation ceased, for the voice of a child began to narrate the classic in the language of a child, and Rosalie carried her audience with her. The little unobserved details of the infantile manner, its occasional abstractions and recalls to the subject, the catching of the breath, and a myriad other peculiarities, were all in evidence, and repeated laughter encouraged the story-teller.
Her big-eyed wonder and horror when she arrived at the thrilling crisis where the wolf devoured Red Riding Hood’s grandmother, “before she even had time to put on her spectacles to see who it was ate her up,” brought down the house; and when the tale drew to a close the clamor of tongues gave witness that Rosalie was a success.
“Isn’t she sweet!” – “Did you ever hear anything so natural!” sped from mouth to mouth. “What a lovely creature she is, and so unaffected!”
And Rosalie stood there looking about, unconsciously smiling, and tingling to her finger-tips with gladness that she had not disappointed Mr. Derwent, whom she could see sitting at the other end of the room.
Mr. Beebe came laughingly to Mrs. Bruce as a Fairport summer oracle.
“Say, ain’t she all right?” he demanded triumphantly.
“Where – ” asked Mrs. Bruce, stammering in her eagerness, “how did you happen to get her?”
“’Twas Clever Betsy’s doings. Didn’t she tell you? Seems Miss Vincent wanted a job o’ this kind for the summer, and Betsy thought she’d work me; and I’m mighty glad she did. The girl is onto her job. There, she’s goin’ to give another.”
The speaker hurried off, while Rosalie’s sweet voice began on one of the Riley favorites that bring tears as well as smiles.
Mrs. Bruce did not hear a word. She leaned back in her chair, a prey to conflicting emotions. She saw Mr. Derwent rise and change his position to one in the background of those who were closest to the speaker.
Robert Nixon stooped close to her ear. “You can’t lose the Yellowstone party,” he said, “and aren’t you the proud lady!”
It was an innocent speech on the part of the irresponsible Nixie, but it started the regulating of Mrs. Bruce’s confused thoughts. She realized that he was referring to the perspicacity with which she had recognized Rosalie’s gifts in an unpromising past, and the munificence with which she had cultivated them; so she sat on a fence, as it were, undecided on which side to get down.
She viewed the faces of the absorbed listeners, and considered that she might indeed accept the part of complacent patroness of this young heroine of the evening; might ask no questions, raise no objections, and behave as though this were the natural and expected outcome of her own perception and generosity; but her irritable vanity and love of managing whispered loudly that she had been outwitted.
Who had loosed Rosalie from the engagement in the Park? Who had paid her transportation east? Who had housed her since? Who had procured the dainty gown in which she now stood, and doubtless a trunk-full more if she were to live and entertain in this inn, as Mr. Beebe had plainly stated was the case? He had also plainly stated the answer to these various phases of one conundrum. Betsy it was, of course! For whom else had the clever one deserted her post of duty and gone to Boston to help a friend from the country to buy clothes? Did she really suppose that Mrs. Bruce was too dense to see completely through this millstone?
Yes, it was plain. The savings of a lifetime had been squandered by Betsy Foster, who must be in her dotage to have done such a thing; squandered on this blonde girl with the appealing, darkening eyes, who was this minute swaying her listeners to smiles and tears.
By this time Mrs. Bruce had decided on which side of the fence to get down, and she did so with energy; and glared across it at Rosalie and her poor dupe, the once clever Betsy.
To think of Betsy being such a traitor as not to ask her mistress’s advice, seeing that this was Mrs. Bruce’s affair, and she would be the best judge of what was right to do!
The offended woman glanced again at her son. Rosalie had not driven the unconscious frown from his tense face.
“I’m sure he suspects the same thing,” she reflected. “He is so loyal to Betsy, he will be outraged.”
Helen Maynard was another who heard as little of Rosalie’s recitation as Mrs. Bruce. Her mental questions were the same. Whose magic wand could have accomplished this transformation in the short time?
A cloud had descended on the heiress’s evening. She remembered the questions Irving Bruce had put to her in the Look-Out at Old Faithful Inn. She knew then that he was trying to probe her interest in her unfortunate school friend, and she remembered the hard obstinacy that at that time rose in her heart against Rosalie. Why, before she had had time to find herself in her new situation, should she begin to take care of and plan for another girl? Her first suspicion and her first look when she recognized Rosalie this evening had been directed toward Irving Bruce; but if his amazement were not unfeigned, he was more capable in histrionics than Rosalie herself.
It was a Saturday evening, and the week-end influx of men had given Proprietor Beebe an extra satisfaction in the presentation of a successful novelty on this rainy night.
Irving Bruce watched the faces of the men, some of whom he knew, and others not, and glared upon all alike because of the open admiration in their eyes for his white dove – more and more his, with every comment that he saw being made upon her; with every ring of applause bestowed upon her efforts to please.
He knew what would happen when this was over. Men as well as women would press upon the young girl to thank her, and he knew with what modest gratitude Rosalie would accept their tributes. He could see Mr. Beebe going about on the outskirts of the crowd, proud of her beauty and success, and knew that he would introduce to her anybody who asked it.
Irving drew near to Mrs. Bruce’s chair and stooped over.
“Join her when this is over, will you, Madama? I don’t believe she has any chaperon.”
“No, I thank you,” was the clear response. “I think I never saw any one who required it less.”
Irving bit his lip. “Don’t speak that way,” he begged. “You know they’ll begin dancing after this. Beebe will make it possible for every Tom, Dick, and Harry to dance with her.”
“Which will be very much to her taste, I imagine,” retorted Mrs. Bruce.
Helen Maynard heard the whispered colloquy. She knew that if, at the close of Rosalie’s efforts, she herself should go forward and join the girl, stand beside her, put her on a par with the guests, Irving Bruce would never forget it of her.
She leaned back in her chair, her heart beating a little fast. By nature she loved power. She had begun to taste it to-night. Aware of looking her best, aware of the sunshine; of approval rained upon her by Mrs. Nixon and Mrs. Bruce, and the frank admiration of the young men, there was a still sweeter triumph for her in the expression of Mr. Derwent’s eyes, which roved over her faint rose-color with an amused kindness at first, but lingered with a surprise and admiration which she treasured eagerly. Suddenly all was changed. There was a centre of attraction toward which all eyes gravitated. Mr. Derwent had risen and left their party to go nearer. Irving Bruce believed that Rosalie needed protection from a too violent belle-ship. Should she go across this room, and stand as a sort of maid-of-honor to this white and gold pauper princess?
Nixie leaned over her chair. Again his random words hit the mark and might carry the day.
“By Jove!” he whispered to Helen, “you two girls will look stunning together. You must let me take you over there as soon as Hebe gets through.”
Helen’s lips compressed and she did not reply.
Rosalie was about to give her last recitation. It was a tender sketch, but with plenty of comedy.
A mother was rocking her baby and singing him to sleep, with periodic interruptions from her other children whom she dismissed with varying manner and replies.
It was excellently done. Rosalie’s singing was simple and natural, her voice sympathetic, and when the lullaby finally died away, and she rose and bent her lovely head above the baby as she laid him in an imaginary bed, there were plenty of dim eyes among her auditors.
The absolute stillness broke as the girl rose and smiled again upon her listeners, – the modest, deprecatory smile the Yellowstone party knew so well.
Irving’s eyes shone. “Mrs. Nixon,” said he to that lady, “may I take you over to speak to Miss Vincent? She is in strange surroundings and will appreciate it.”
“Well,” replied Mrs. Nixon with a surprised and regal lift of the head, “the girl certainly does charming work. I’m quite willing to tell her so.”
She rose and took Irving’s offered arm, and they moved away. Mrs. Bruce held her lip between her teeth; her face burned, her eyes filled with tears of anger and mortification.
“Great Scott!” ejaculated Robert, still winking hard, “that girl made my nose tingle. She has one of these silly voices, you know, that go way in and knock on your heart, and if you try to steel yourself, it just opens the door and walks in any way. Come on, let’s all three go over and tell her she’s a dandy. Look at ’em crowd around her! She’s like a drop of honey in fly-time.”
Mrs. Bruce and Helen rose undecidedly.
“Say, look at Uncle Henry!” exclaimed Robert with a joyous squeak. “Isn’t he Johnny-on-the-spot though? Those chaps aren’t going to have it all their own way.”
Mrs. Bruce pressed her handkerchief to her lips, for she too saw Mr. Derwent move a little in advance of the other guests, and after holding Rosalie’s hand a moment in congratulation, draw it within his arm and stand beside her while the kindly, effusive crowd drew near.
Helen Maynard shrugged her shoulders. “That settles it, Mrs. Bruce,” she said. “Mr. Derwent has evidently decided to make her a success. Very nice for her, isn’t it? We may as well go and speak to her, I suppose.”
Mrs. Bruce moved with them in silence. Robert glanced at her with comprehension.
“Darn Brute,” he thought. “Why did he want to go and get mother in wrong here!” To his simple mind it was difficult to grasp the mental processes of his hostess; but he saw her emotion. “I’ll chance a jolly, anyway,” he reflected.
“You must feel like a lady Columbus,” he said to Mrs. Bruce, with an admiring air.
“Oh, no, Nixie,” she rejoined. “I feel like a cipher. Nothing more.”
In his whole life Irving had never slighted her before. For that girl’s sake he had not hesitated to punish her. This was Betsy’s doing, – all her doing.
So the waves of heat and hurt passed over her as she crossed the room on Nixie’s arm, seeing, ahead of her, Irving devotedly talking to Mrs. Nixon as they moved toward the star of the evening.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE DANCE
With the approval of her audience ringing in her ears, and Mr. Derwent’s kindly presence and support to bridge over the awkward first moments that assail the drawing-room entertainer when her work is done, Rosalie might scarcely have been able to keep her slender white slippers touching earth but for an anchor, a ball and chain, which Betsy had in all kindness attached to her on the last evening they spent together.
They had sat on the edge of the bed in their boarding-house, talking, and Betsy plunged boldly into a subject that lay heavy on her heart.
“I feel just as certain as I sit here,” she said, “that you’re goin’ to make a success of it at that inn.”
“O Betsy, – ” the young girl took her friend’s hand joyously, – “I like to hear you say so, and I do really believe I can please them because I love to do it so.”
“You’ve showed me a lot o’ your pieces, and it’s a sensible selection. You ain’t goin’ to tear up the ground and try to be a Burnhard. You’re goin’ to make ’em laugh, and if they’re as soft as I am, you’re goin’ to make ’em cry, same as you have me to-night. That’s where you’ve got good judgment. You’ve got as sweet a voice as I ever heard, and your glass tells you you’re good-lookin’.”
The girl leaned toward her eagerly. “Do you think I’m very pretty, Betsy?” she asked.
“Yes; and it’s a good thing for your work; but listen here, Rosalie, it ain’t a good thing for anything else.”
The girl laughed. “You silly, dear Betsy!” she exclaimed.
“Mr. Irving was talkin’ about somebody in your line o’ work lately; and I listened hard on your account. He said she wa’n’t any good – her programmes wasn’t. He said she didn’t have ‘the instinct of the entertainer’! Those were his very words. I said ’em over to myself so’s to remember; for I saw his point.”
“Do you think he’ll believe that I have?” The girl’s azure eyes darkened as she asked it.
“Yes, I do. The way you’ve made me act silly to-night, shows that you know how to make folks laugh while they’re cryin’; and that’s as near the secret o’ success as any one can come, I guess; but it ain’t goin’ to be all roses, dear child.” Betsy patted the hand that held hers. It was hard for her to dim the blue light shining upon her so hopefully. “I said your good looks were a disadvantage, and they are from the minute you stop actin’. We happened to speak of Mr. Irving just now, so I’ll take him for an example. He’s the apple o’ my eye, Rosalie, and I believe in him just as much as I do in any man, as far as intentions go; but he’ll be one of a whole lot o’ young men you’ll meet at the inn, and you’re a little bit acquainted with him, and he’s sure to enjoy your work, and your good looks, and he’s liable to flatter you, and when the summer’s over – ”
Betsy could scarcely go on, the expression of the blue eyes was changing so fast as their gaze clung to her; but she braced herself.
“That’ll be over, too. Men-folks are selfish. They don’t know what they’re doin’. Irving Bruce has inherited quite a lot o’ money. He knows dozens o’ the finest girls in Boston. Mrs. Bruce probably expects that some crown princess from the other side o’ the water’ll be over here after him yet. Have a good time, Rosalie,” Betsy again patted the relaxed hand, which she could feel tremble, “but be mejum. I speak this way to you because I know your disposition, and your unhappiness would cut me deep.”
The girl withdrew her hand quietly. “Thank you,” she said.
“Old Kill-joy that I am!” thought poor Betsy as she lay awake that night, and knew that Rosalie was awake beside her; but the very effect of her words convinced her that it was necessary to have spoken them; and when she supplemented this by her appeal to Irving later in the garden, she felt that she had done her worst, and her best; and whatever came, her conscience was clear.
As Rosalie stood in the living-room of the inn to-night, her hand within Mr. Derwent’s arm, she was too excited to be conscious that it was his action which heightened the effusiveness of the guests. They might laugh and weep under her efforts to entertain them, but many who would not have taken her hand afterward advanced graciously when it was quickly whispered that the man beside her was Henry Derwent of Boston.
“Your brother is a trump!” murmured Irving to Mrs. Nixon.
The lady looked resigned.
“When Henry takes it into his head to befriend any one,” she said, “he carries his point. Since the day he found, out there in the Park, that this girl was the daughter of his old friend, I suppose he has never really forgotten her. It is like him to be so rejoiced in this change in her fortunes that he immediately takes her under his wing.”
“He’s a trump!” repeated Irving.
Mrs. Nixon was dimly aware that Mrs. Bruce would be fuming at her action, for she had overheard her refusal of Irving’s request.
“I can’t do otherwise than stand by my brother,” thought Mrs. Nixon. “I can’t help it if she is offended.”
And now they had reached Rosalie, and for the first time Irving noticed that she was very pale.
He had counted on a special look from those blue eyes, – a look that would recall the last time they had stood together, in a world of beauty created for them alone.
He heard Mrs. Nixon say in her grave, sonorous tones: —
“Your work is charming!”
And yet he had not caught her eye.
Betsy had said – fond, foolish Betsy! who could suppose that she would be so imaginative, Betsy had said – and the expression and manner with which Rosalie now turned to him at last, gave the lie direct to all those implications.
“Good-evening, Mr. Bruce. How tanned you are!” the girl said, raising her eyebrows with a little smile, as if they had met yesterday on Tremont Street.
Then she turned to meet a couple of young men who pressed forward under the guidance of Mr. Beebe.
“These gentlemen are anxious to meet you, Miss Vincent, and say some pretty things. Mr. Ames and Mr. Foster, Miss Vincent, and Mr. Derwent, too.”
Mr. Derwent inclined his head, his hand hanging by his side, and Rosalie’s tightened on his arm as she turned from Irving to meet the somewhat embarrassed expressions of enthusiasm from the young men, who seemed to find Rosalie’s immobile and white-mustached companion somewhat of a bar to their loquacity.
“Hope to see you again, Miss Vincent, when the dancing begins,” said Mr. Ames as they withdrew.
Now came Robert and his companions.
“Dancing?” repeated Robert in a high key. “Anybody taken your first waltz, Miss Vincent?” Rosalie shook her head.
“Mine, then. Is it?”
“If you wish,” said the girl, and then took Mrs. Bruce’s mechanically offered hand.
This lady had keyed herself to one master-effort, and she said now: —
“You know, I always believed you could.”
“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Bruce!”
Rosalie’s smile of gratitude, her low tone, and the sudden moisture that dimmed her eyes, should have touched the heart of her benefactress; but that organ could not hold another emotion. Mrs. Bruce slightly bowed and smiled, and moved slowly away.
At Robert Nixon’s invitation to Rosalie, Helen bit her lip. “Rude, – incredibly rude cub!” she thought. “I’ll never forgive him for that!”
The clinging of Rosalie to Mr. Derwent’s arm was another item in her disfavor; and Helen approached, her habitual self-control standing her in good stead, but all the rose-color of the opening of her evening turned to ashes of roses.
“I had no idea you were so proficient, Miss Vincent,” she said calmly. “Why haven’t you gone into this long ago?”
Rosalie met her cool regard admiringly.
“Things have changed for us both wonderfully since we met in the Park,” she said. “You look very lovely to-night.”
“Oh, really?” Helen gave a little laugh and quietly met Mr. Derwent’s eyes. “How kind!”
“Me next,” said Robert. “We’ll have to beat it in a minute, ’cause there are a lot more coming; but I want to tell you you’re a wonder. My nose felt like your foot when it’s asleep, and a pearly tear coursed down my rounded cheek – ”
Here the speaker was pushed aside, and found it best to skip after Helen’s pink robe.
“Brute says this floor’s all right when the minions get the rugs up,” he said, as he joined her. “They don’t have any cards here, but you’ll give me the – yes, the second dance, won’t you – and the – yes, I remember you dance like a fairy. You must give me a lot.”
Robert ended in a rush of crimson embarrassment as Helen moved steadily onward toward the corner where Mrs. Nixon had taken a seat.
“Thank you,” she returned. “It is fortunate for me that you dance as well as you do other things; because after all, I’m a stranger here, you know, and beggars mustn’t be choosers.”
Mrs. Nixon received the pair with a smile. “Well, my dears,” she said, “we’ve all done our duty, haven’t we?”
“Pourvu seulement she doesn’t tell mamma,” thought Robert with a sinking of the heart.
“Haven’t we?” he responded airily. “And look at my noble uncle – I’m not quite sure whether his name is Quixote or Casabianca; but I hope he’ll get off the rug soon, so it can be taken up.”
“Yes,” responded Mrs. Nixon graciously. “I’m glad there’s to be dancing, for I may be a fond mamma, but I do think when you and dear Helen dance, that the poetry of motion is reached. Where has Mrs. Bruce disappeared to?”
“Never end your sentences with a preposition, mother! But despite your inelegance I will go and find her for you;” and Robert moved away, his eager eyes searching, but not for Irving’s stepmother. He soon descried the tall outline of his friend, standing alone in the dusk of the veranda, and he charged upon him.
“Brute, I’ve put my foot in it!” he ejaculated.
Irving turned slowly and regarded him.
“That’s all you ever take it out for, so far as I can discover,” he replied pessimistically.
“Cruelly unjust, but I’ll pass it by. Say, there aren’t so many peaches here but that you can do me a favor.”
“Say on.”
Robert made a grimace of rueful self-disgust.
“Of course I ought to have taken the first dance with Helen Maynard.”
“You couldn’t do anything else.”
“Yes, I could. I can always do things that to others would seem impossible. To me they’re mere bagatelles. I’m about to be snubbed evermore by the heiress, and disinherited by mother.”
“Speak out.”
“It was an attack of emotional insanity. They always come out of a clear sky, and she was so enchanting – ”
“Who?”
“Hebe. I asked her for the first dance, in Helen’s presence.”
Irving looked the culprit over from head to foot.
“Well,” he remarked, with a severity which seemed disproportionate to the occasion, “you are the limit!”
“And a transfer!” added Robert humbly. “Now you’re the only person that can save the day – I mean the evening. If you’ll go in, this minute, – go in eagerly, you know, just as soon as she sees you, fall over your own feet in your hurry, – do the thing handsomely, why, you’ll be acting like a friend! Get your breath as well as you can, and ask her for the first dance. So you will avert the storm from your tried and true Nixie!”
Irving looked unpromisingly gloomy. “I wasn’t thinking of dancing to-night,” he said.
“Well, think of it quick, now.” Robert dragged at his reluctant companion. “Put on a gilt edge by asking for the second one, too. She can’t give it to you, because I’ve engaged it. When you see me in the light, you’ll think I’ve turned gray in a single night; but it’s only the frosty rime that she cast over me when she accepted. Beside, you’ve got to ask Miss Vincent, haven’t you? You seem to have influence with mamma, and I’d rather you’d bring her over to be chaperoned than do it myself. Uncle Henry can’t play watchdog very well when it comes to partners.”
Irving allowed himself to be shoved and pulled toward the door. He felt the force of Nixie’s last argument, but he was still conscious of a strange disappointment in the carelessness of Rosalie’s greeting. Betsy’s earnest talk had fallen upon a wondering credulity, because of the tenderness that he had felt for this girl from the beginning, – a feeling totally different from anything he had ever experienced.
Her self-possession, and fleeting notice of himself just now, had given him an odd shock, and opened his eyes to the fact that he had given absurd weight to Betsy’s words.
Now, under Robert’s vigorous appeal, he shook himself together.
“I’m a worse sentimental idiot than dear old Betsy,” he thought.
Robert, lurking cautiously in the background, viewed his friend’s deliberate advance to Mrs. Nixon’s corner, and heaved a sigh of relief.
Slinking into the hall with intent to seek Rosalie, he saw her, still leaning on the arm of Mr. Derwent, who was leading her, also, toward the corner where Mrs. Nixon sat enthroned. Robert remained unostentatiously behind the jamb of the door, and his small bright eyes twinkled appreciatively as he watched his uncle place a chair near by for his charge.
“Mrs. Bruce has slid out of it,” he thought gleefully, “and mamma is Hebe’s chaperon, willy-nilly. I’ll bet she don’t like it a little bit! Now, Nixie, look bland and don’t let your upper lip wiggle. You may pull it off yet!”
The rugs had been swiftly removed, and the music started. A number of couples swung promptly out upon the floor.
Robert saw Irving say something to Rosalie, and then smile and bow to Helen, who rose and floated away with him.
Then, only, Robert, with an expression of singular innocence, came leisurely across the floor to his mother’s corner.
She looked at him with a fixed regard, and her nostrils dilated.
“Where were you, Robert?” she asked. “Irving has taken Helen out for the first dance.”
“Just like him,” returned Robert brazenly. “Mother, you must accustom yourself to such blows, or your parental pride will be constantly wounded. I’m not one, two, three with Brute where girls are concerned, but I’ve had to learn to turn a sunny side to the world in spite of it, and weep only when alone. I don’t want to grow cynical, but I find that it is too true that others care little for our sorrows. Miss Vincent, shall we show them how to do this?”
Rosalie rose, smiling a farewell to Mr. Derwent, and started off in such perfect step with her partner that he emitted a joyous exclamation.
“Perhaps Hebe isn’t some dancer!” he said. “Say, do you mind my calling you Hebe? It takes so much less time than Terpsichore.”
“Mr. Nixon, your mother didn’t like this at all,” said Rosalie.
“Well, when you come right down to it,” remarked her partner philosophically, “there are so few things she does like.”
“But – ought you not to have had this with Miss Maynard?”
“Some carping critics might say so, – Look out, there! Didn’t we duck neatly under Brute’s elbow? The fact is, Miss Vincent, I’ve graduated in almost every line except diplomacy; and you– you just swept me off my feet to-night. No – don’t be afraid I shall try to flirt with you. That requires diplomacy, too, and I make too many breaks ever to be successful at it. I was crazy about you to-night, and when I heard Ames say ‘dancing,’ I blurted my innocent wish right out. I’m just a child of nature – fresh, unspoiled.”
Rosalie laughed. “I’ve heard people say you were fresh,” she said.
“Naughty, naughty!” returned Robert.
“No, you’re the naughty one,” said the girl. “You’ve put me in a disagreeable position.”
“I don’t believe it, Hebe. I know you are enjoying this.”
She sighed. “You do dance like a – a ribbon,” she admitted.
Robert laughed.
“And what has Helen to complain of?” he asked. “Hasn’t she the great and only Brute? I’m making the most of your approval of my dancing before you try it with him. He is one of these haughty heroes, who h-excel in everything, you know.”
“Including flirting, I suppose,” said Rosalie.
“Couldn’t say. He’s never flirted with me. Humble observation, however, would deduce that all he ever does is to allow himself to be made love to.”
Rosalie swallowed, and essayed a laugh.
“Companionship with Brute has made me a socialist, socially, Hebe. Here I am, cheerful, willing to please – average good-looking. Yes, I maintain it. Now, Hebe, am I not average good-looking? Don’t speak too quickly. Remember, Chinese, African, American-Indian – ”
“Oh, Mr. Nixon,” – Rosalie did laugh now, – “how can you talk so constantly, and dance too?”
They were passing Mrs. Nixon, and that lady heard the girlish laugh. She sighed.
“She certainly dances well. Helen said she was noted for it at school. I suppose she is a really artistic creature; but Robert should have been here in time to ask Helen. College has absolutely ruined his manners.”