"Isn't this our dance, Mr. Kilday?" she said, half smiling, half timidly.
In the excitement of the moment he forgot his carefully practised bow, and the omission brought such chagrin that he started out with the wrong foot. There was a gentle, ripping sound, and a quarter of a yard of lace trailed from the hem of his partner's skirt.
"Did I put me foot in it?" cried Sandy, in such burning consternation that Ruth laughed.
"It doesn't matter a bit," she said lightly, as she stooped to pin it up. "It shows I've had a good time. Come! Don't let's miss the music."
He took her hand, and they stepped out on the polished floor. The blissful agony of those first few moments was intolerably sweet.
She was actually dancing with him (one, two, three; one, two, three). Her soft hair was close to his cheek (one, two, three; one, two, three). What if he should miss a step (one, two, three)—or fall?
He stole a glance at her; she smiled reassuringly. Then he forgot all about the steps and counting time. He felt as he had that morning on shipboard when the America passed the Great Britain. All the joy of boyhood resurged through his veins, and he danced in a wild abandonment of bliss; for the band was playing "Home, Sweet
Home," and to Sandy it meant that, come what might, within her shining eyes his gipsy soul had found its final home.
