"You haven't all sprained your ankles, have you?" he asked.
"I mean we haven't been doing any dancing here," explained Gertrude desperately. "We—Mother doesn't like it."
This statement astonished Mrs. Witherbee to such an extent that she opened her mouth and held it that way for several seconds. Then she nodded.
The next half-hour on the Witherbee porch was crowded with the efforts of ten persons to curb the restless spirit of a young man who wanted to do something.
They spoke softly and upon soft topics, such as gardening and clothes and fresh air. They argued nothing, but agreed upon everything. They urged Reginald to sit down. They tried to make him wear Mr. Witherbee's top coat. They watched with sickening dread as he smoked. They scarcely breathed when he proposed to take a moonlight swim.
Then one by one they went off to bed, yawning prodigiously and declaring that it was getting very late. Reginald and Rosalind found themselves alone.
He waited to make sure that the last of the company had disappeared, then turned to her with a bewildered look.
"What on earth is the matter with this crowd?" he demanded.
"What seems to be the matter?" asked Rosalind.
"Matter! They all act as if they were afraid to make a noise or turn around. They even whisper. Nothing's gone wrong here, has it?"