She sighed. “You do dance like a—a ribbon,” she admitted.
Robert laughed.
“And what has Helen to complain of?” he asked. “Hasn’t she the great and only Brute? I’m making the most of your approval of my dancing before you try it with him. He is one of these haughty heroes, who h-excel in everything, you know.”
“Including flirting, I suppose,” said Rosalie.
“Couldn’t say. He’s never flirted with me. Humble observation, however, would deduce that all he ever does is to allow himself to be made love to.”
Rosalie swallowed, and essayed a laugh.
“Companionship with Brute has made me a socialist, socially, Hebe. Here I am, cheerful, willing to please—average good-looking. Yes, I maintain it. Now, Hebe, am I not average good-looking? Don’t speak too quickly. Remember, Chinese, African, American-Indian—”
“Oh, Mr. Nixon,”—Rosalie did laugh now,—“how can you talk so constantly, and dance too?”
They were passing Mrs. Nixon, and that lady heard the girlish laugh. She sighed.