"What? Forget Gray Eyes? Forget little Nell? Why don't you try it yourself, Bill?"
"I don't have to. She's my secretary," said Bill maliciously.
"She's your dancing-teacher, you mean. I've seen you at it; the two of you. Getting ready for the party! Bill Marshall, you're losing your character and your self-respect."
Bill grinned complacently.
"It isn't as if you needed to learn to dance," added Pete, as he kicked a book off the table. "You can dance rings around her, if you want to. But you're deceitful, Bill. She's got you one-twoing and three-fouring all over the library, and you making believe it's all new stuff. It's a gol darned shame, and I'm going to tell her so."
"You're going to mind your own business or get busted," predicted Bill. "It doesn't make any difference what I used to know about dancing; I need practice. Besides, you can always go and talk theology to Aunt Caroline. She's never busy."
Pete groaned.
"I'm laying off it—when she'll let me," he said miserably. "She's getting interested in it, Bill. Yesterday I had to go and bone up some more in the encyclopedia; I was all run out of stuff."
"All right, son; only don't accuse me."