"Chuck him, then, and dance it with me. I should like to talk to you."
"That's what he said."
"Do you want to hear what he's got to say?"
(Well, you know, dear, I had wanted to; but suddenly I felt as if Dick didn't matter more than a fly, nor did any one else except the person I was talking to. You do feel like that with these quiet, masterful sort of people, whether you care for them or not. It's just a kind of momentary hypnotism; or, at least, that's the definition I've been giving myself.)
"I don't want to hear what he's got to say," my hypnotized Me answered, in the queer, abrupt way in which we had begun snapping out little short sentences to each other. "I'm sure he couldn't say anything really interesting."
"Don't you like Dick Burden?"
"Not much."
"Then the dance is mine. Which is it?"
"The next. Here he comes now. I see the top of his head, over the shoulder of that youth with the collar of a curate and the face of a convict."
The Dragon smiled benevolently at my wicked description of a comparatively inoffensive person, and whisked me off.