"We shall be glad to see you, never doubt that. Lucia will be so disappointed to-morrow evening."
Grandon bows. Is there anything more to say proper to the occasion? He has heard so much during the last three months that he has grown quite nervous on the subject of society etiquette.
On the morrow Violet is anxious to hear about the dinner. She is young and full of interest in gay doings, in spite of her early sorrow. He makes blunders over the dresses, and they both laugh gayly; he describes the guests and the old friends, and the complimentary inquiries about her.
"I wish you could be there on Thursday evening," he says, regretfully. "That is to be a party with dancing, and plenty of young people,—Laura's companions."
"And I have never been to a real party in all my life!" she cries. "I suppose I couldn't dance, but I could look on, and there is my lovely dress!"
"You shall have a party for your own self, and all the dancing you want," he answers.
"Can you waltz, Mr. Grandon?" she asks, after a moment's thought.
He laughs. The idea of Floyd Grandon, traveller and explorer, whirling round in a giddy waltz!
"It isn't so ridiculous," she says, her face full of lovely, girlish resentment. "At school we learned to waltz, but it was with girls, and—I couldn't ever waltz with any one but you, because—because——" and her eyes fill up with tears.
"No," he answers, quickly, "I shouldn't ever want you to. I will—I mean we will both practise up. I did waltz when I was first in India, but my dancing days came to an end."