Many of the same people came to the inn, season after season, and Irving knew most of them. Some were Harvard men known to Robert as well, and he at last being alive to Helen’s situation, the group around the two girls soon became extremely animated. Amidst the strife of tongues Irving made his way to Rosalie.
“This is ours?” he said.
As they moved away, she spoke: “I hope I sha’n’t offend any one. I haven’t the least idea what I’ve promised to do.”
In a sort of dream she started in the dance. This was Fairport. In fifteen minutes she could be standing in Mrs. Pogram’s kitchen, where the clock ticked loud above the oilcloth shelf, and Loomis Brown counted the silver she had washed.
What a gulf had lain between this inn, with its airily dressed girls and their cavaliers, and the chill, dusky room where at dawn she had made Loomis’s coffee before he took the early train to Portland. Her hand tightened on Irving’s arm while she recalled the amorous advances of Mrs. Pogram’s brother, and his change, after her repulsion, to anger and a mean revenge.
A long, inaudible breath came quivering to her lips as she glided on under her partner’s perfect guidance. Rosalie loved dancing as only the artistic nature can love it, and the rising and falling waves of music went to her brain like wine.
“Cruel Betsy! Wise Betsy!” she thought.
“Do you remember,” said Irving, “the last time I held you like this?”
“I’m afraid I’m very dull,” she replied. “Did we dance together in some previous incarnation?”
“Don’t you wish to remember, Rosalie?”