Rosalie rose, smiling a farewell to Mr. Derwent, and started off in such perfect step with her partner that he emitted a joyous exclamation.
“Perhaps Hebe isn’t some dancer!” he said. “Say, do you mind my calling you Hebe? It takes so much less time than Terpsichore.”
“Mr. Nixon, your mother didn’t like this at all,” said Rosalie.
“Well, when you come right down to it,” remarked her partner philosophically, “there are so few things she does like.”
“But—ought you not to have had this with Miss Maynard?”
“Some carping critics might say so,—Look out, there! Didn’t we duck neatly under Brute’s elbow? The fact is, Miss Vincent, I’ve graduated in almost every line except diplomacy; and you—you just swept me off my feet to-night. No—don’t be afraid I shall try to flirt with you. That requires diplomacy, too, and I make too many breaks ever to be successful at it. I was crazy about you to-night, and when I heard Ames say ‘dancing,’ I blurted my innocent wish right out. I’m just a child of nature—fresh, unspoiled.”
Rosalie laughed. “I’ve heard people say you were fresh,” she said.
“Naughty, naughty!” returned Robert.
“No, you’re the naughty one,” said the girl. “You’ve put me in a disagreeable position.”
“I don’t believe it, Hebe. I know you are enjoying this.”