Then came another and younger man, and Margaret waltzed away with him. Seeing jealousy in Philip's face, Margaret whispered:
"Be good. I love only you."
He tried hard to be good, but strive as he might, he could not help feeling a little bit wicked. He contrived, however, to obtain many crumbs of consolation during the night. Crumbs! Slices, I ought to say; for the night was lovely, and now and then between the dances Philip stole into the open with his sweetheart on his arm. Being in the shade once he wanted to embrace her.
"Be quiet, sir," she said, coquettishly. "I'm only to be looked at to-night. How do I look, Philip!"
His eyes answered her, and he became more demonstrative.
"No, Philip, no!" she cried. "I must not be crushed."
"Why," answered Philip, with tender adroitness, "when I am dancing with you, I put my arm round your waist--so!"
"Ah!" she said, with a most delicious little laugh, "that's more neatly done."
"And my face, then, is close to yours--so!"
He had his way, and she became an accomplice. Being fired to emulation, she showed him that she was not to be outdone in tenderness. When a woman is in love, she forgets her cunning.