They slid easily into a one-step, and for one circuit of the room Vandervent said nothing. Then, suddenly, he remarked that she danced well, adding thereto his opinion that most girls didn't.
He spoke nervously; an upward glance confirmed Clancy in an amazing impression, an impression that, when she had observed him staring at her as she danced, she had put down to her own vanity. But now she decided that a Vandervent was as easily conquerable as a Randall. And the thought was extremely agreeable.
"I suppose," she said, "that the district attorney's office is an interesting place."
It was a banal remark, but his own nervousness confused her, and she must say something. So she said this desperately. Usually she was at home when flirtation began. But the Vandervent name awed her.
"Not very," he said. "Not unless one makes it interesting. That's what I've decided to do. I started something to-day that ought to be interesting. Very."
"What is it?" asked Clancy. "Or shouldn't I ask?"
Vandervent caught her eyes as he reversed. He looked swiftly away again.
"Oh, I wouldn't mind telling you," he said.
Clancy knew that Vandervent intended flirtation—in the way of all men, using exactly the same words, the same emphasis on the objective personal pronoun.