The élite flocked on the floor and began to indulge in old-fashioned specialties, some of which were nearly a fortnight old. You heard delighted remarks:
"That's Mrs. Vandergilt!"
"There goes Reggie Van Duzen!"
"Look at Katherine Van Schaick!"
Then the New York that Americans call ruffianly, impolite, vulgar, selfish, spendthrift, money-loving, self-satisfied, and stupid, also began to dance decorously! The veteran reporters did not believe their eyes, but they made a note of the fact, nevertheless.
Grace was nearly out of breath. She said, "I'm—I'm—I'm—"
"Certainly, dear girl." And H. R. deftly piloted her out of the crush. They stopped dancing, and he gave her his arm. She took it.
"Grace," he said, "when will you marry me?"
"Never!" she answered, determinedly. "And you must not call me Grace."
"Right-O!" he said, gratefully. "I'll call to-morrow afternoon. Shall I speak to Bishop Phillipson, or will father—"