"Neither do I—or any other, for that matter," he confessed with sudden boldness. "But does that make any difference? Please!"
She glanced quickly toward the door. Maurice Rodaine was still talking, and Fairchild saw a little gleam come into her eyes,—the gleam that shows when a woman decides to make some one pay for rudeness. Again he begged:
"Won't you—and then we 'll forget. I—I could n't take my payment in money!"
She eyed him quickly and saw the smile on his lips. From the platform the caller voiced another entreaty:
"One more cou-ple! Ain't there no lady an' gent that's goin' to fill out this here dance? One more couple—one more couple!"
Fairchild's hand was still extended. Again Anita Richmond glanced toward the door, chuckled to herself while Fairchild watched the dimples that the merriment caused, and then—Fairchild forgot the fact that he was wearing hobnailed shoes and that his clothes were worn and old. He was going forward to take his place on the dance floor, and she was beside him!
Some way, as through a haze, he saw her. Some way he realized that now and then his hand touched hers, and that once, as they whirled about the room, in obedience to the monarch on the fiddler's rostrum, his arm was about her waist, and her head touching his shoulder. It made little difference whether the dance calls were obeyed after that. Fairchild was making up for all the years he had plodded, all the years in which he had known nothing but a slow, grubbing life, living them all again and rightly, in the few swift moments of a dance.
The music ended, and laughing they returned to the side of the hall. Out of the haze he heard words, and knew indistinctly that they were his own:
"Will—will you dance with me again tonight?"
"Selfish!" she chided.