“My heart is in it. Of course, if you prefer the bungling of a novice, there is no more to be said.”
“Thy Majesty’s manners have never been questioned,” murmured the Quakeress, bowing dismissal. “So kind of you!”
The devil bowed deeply and turned, pausing to hurl a gloomy prophecy over his shoulder. “See you later!” he said, and stalked away with an ill grace.
Pigskin hero and girl Friend, left alone, eyed each other with mutual apprehension. The girl Friend was first to recover speech. Her red lips were prim below her vizor, her eyes downcast to hide their dancing lights. Timidly she spread out fanwise the dove color of her sober costume.
“How does thee like my gray gown?”
“Not at all,” said Jeff brutally. “You’re no friend of mine, I hope.”
A most un-Quakerlike dimple trembled to her chin, relieving the firm austerity of straight lips. Also, Jeff caught a glimpse of her eyes through the vizor. They were crinkling—and they were brown. She ventured another tentative remark, and there was in it an undertone lingering, softly confidential.
“Is thee lame?”
“Not—very,” said Jeff, and saw a faint color start to the unmasked moiety of the Quaker cheek. “Still, if I may have the next dance, I shall be glad if you will sit it out with me.” Painfully he raised the beslinged arm in explanation. Sobre las Olas throbbed out its wistful call; they set their thought to its haunting measure.