"I see," said Julia. And Prince wondered how old Connie thought he was, his hair was a little thin, not from age—always had been that way—and he was as brown as a Zulu, but it was only sunburn. He'd figure out a way of letting her know he was only thirty-two before the evening was over.
"Are you going over to the street to-night?" he asked of David, but not caring half a cent what David did.
"I am afraid I can't. I am not very good on my feet any more. I am sorry, the girls would enjoy it."
"Carol and I might go alone," suggested Connie bravely. "Every one does out here. We wouldn't mind it."
"I will not go to a street carnival and leave David," protested Carol.
"It would be rather interesting." Connie looked tentatively from the window.
Prince swallowed in anguish. She ought to go, he told them; she really needs to go. The evenings are so much fuller of literary material than day-times. And the dancing—
"I do not dance," said Connie. "My father is a minister."
"You do not dance! Why, that's funny. I don't either. That is, not exactly,— Oh, once in a while just to fill in." Then the latter part of her remark reached his inner consciousness. "A minister. By George!"
"My husband is one, too," said Carol.