“I must play the ingénue part for which I am costumed,” she thought.
“Mrs. Kingdon told me,” she said gently, “that the boys had so few opportunities for partners, I must divide my dances equally.”
“There’s a party of tourists—teachers—at Westcott’s. I’ve asked them over. The boys can dance with them.”
“Well,” she assented graciously, “I’ll just dance with Betty and Francis and Billy—”
“And me,” he finished.
“Thank you. I didn’t know that you danced.”
In the dance hall she looked eagerly about, hoping that Jo might have been invited, but she was disappointed.
“I am not dancing,” she thought, when Kurt was guiding her over the floor. “I am just being deliciously carried about. It’s very restful, but not exhilarating. Oh, Jo, where art thou? It was like drinking champagne to dance with you, but I suppose continuous champagne is bad for one.”
Later that night when she was taking off her dancing slippers her thoughts were still of the man with whom she had danced so many times.
“He’s kind and good and strong—a suppressed strength. He looks passion-proof; but if he ever falls in love! And what a triumph for a thief to capture an adamantine heart! But I don’t want that kind—nor any kind.”