“I know it,” I said, remorsefully. “For that very reason I want you to pardon me. Pardon me, come now, pardon me. Will you forgive me?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied, as though acceding to a childish whim.
“How good you are!” I exclaimed, impulsively, in a low, deep tone.
We took several turns more, and felt our heads grow dizzy from waltzing in such close quarters. She stopped for a moment, and I then inquired:
“Auntie, do you expect ever to dance again?”
“No, this is my last waltz. Married women do not dance.”
“The last!”
“Then give me, I beg you, that spray of orange-blossoms. Do give it to me!”
“What do you want it for?”