"Oh, am I to dance with any one else?" she asks, in a faint tone of surprise.
"Why—yes—quadrilles, I believe, are admissible."
"I wish we had some music, we might waltz anytime," and she pats her little foot on the floor; "just you and I together."
"Well, I shall have to buy a music-box, and we can dance out on the lawn after the manner of the German and French peasants."
She gives such a lovely, rippling laugh that he indulges in a still fonder squeeze. It is very pleasant to have her. That is as far as Floyd Grandon has yet gone.
"But from now to then," he asks, "what can you find to amuse yourself with?"
"To amuse myself?" she asks, rather puzzled. "Why, you are not going away?" and she grasps his arm tightly.
"Going away! No." She would miss him then; but, he reflects, there is no one else for companionship. Marcia somehow is not congenial, and Eugene—how much company a pleasant young fellow like Eugene might prove.
"Is there any one you would like to ask here?" He thinks of madame,—she would be a delightful summer guest. He would like to open his house, he does owe something to society for its warm welcome to him.
"I don't really know any one but Mrs. Latimer. Oh," she says, with a bright ring in her voice, "how nice it would be to have them both, and the children! Would your mother mind very much, I wonder?"