Effie May welcomed them with enthusiasm. "Good for you! I had my money on you, Dickums! Five minutes, and the son of a schoolmate! It's a record!—Ta-ta, young people! Enjoy yourselves," was her valedictory as she whirled the Major away, waving her hand over his shoulder.
Joan stared aghast at the blond young man, who said, "She is an awfully jolly sort, your mother, isn't she?"
"Very jolly," agreed Joan faintly. "But she's not my mother."
"Oh!"
A silence fell. He seemed to be waiting for her to break it. She gulped, and said in a firm voice, "Did you come to ask me to dance?"
The young man indicated politely that such was his intention.
"You couldn't very well help yourself, could you?" she remarked, and suddenly burst out laughing—rather hysterical laughter in which the young man joined embarrassedly.
"Of course if you'd rather talk—" he murmured.
Joan jumped to her feet. "Oh, but I wouldn't! I'd rather do anything than talk—no matter what I say, just talk, warm up to 'em, hot air—I mean," she explained desperately, "I'm much too shy to talk!"
"You don't sound very shy."