I thought that after dinner it might be well to sit again beside the fort where we could watch the prairie. There is a comforting sense of security that comes to one at nightfall when one has looked in all directions and found all things well. So for a while she left me to the orgy of washing dishes, but when I had turned the last plate top down upon our kitchen log to dry, I saw her returning.
She came humming a tune, a catchy tune—I recognized it at once—that the mandolins had tinkled in the Havana café, and from the mischievous curves about the corners of her mouth I knew that her mood was adorable. So I caught up the tune, whistling softly, and crossed to her holding out my hands.
"It's a corking fox-trot," I said, for the moment stopping our orchestra. "Let's dance it!"
But she drew back, laughing outright.
"I don't know how!"
"Don't dance?" I must have looked my amazement, for she answered:
"I've often danced, all alone, when I just couldn't help it; but there hasn't been any one to teach me your kind!"
"I will," I cried delightedly. "We'll begin with that fox-trot!"
"We'd look awfully silly," she replied. "Besides, the name of your dance is atrocious."
I felt rather thankful that I hadn't suggested the shimmy.