“I did! I did! And afterward I felt like Salome with the head of John the Baptist.”
Bob twisted his handsome head and lifted a hand to his neck. “Well, it’s really not so bad as that,” he returned in a tone intended to be consoling. “Anyhow, it’s very brave of you to come and tell me about it.”
“Brave!” she scoffed, the temperamental breast rising. “Why, I just blurted it all right out—how I discovered you in my room—how I turned on the light and how you dropped the brooch to the floor!”
For a few moments both were silent. Then Bob spoke: “How’d it be, if we called bygones, bygones, and just be friends?” he said gravely. “Honestly, I believe I could like you an awful lot as a friend.”
“Don’t!” she said hoarsely. “Or—or I can’t hold in. My! but you are good.”
“Isn’t that the sound of music?” said Bob suddenly.
“I—I believe it is.”
“A tango, by jove! Think of tangoing right after breakfast! Some one is beginning early. What are we coming to in these degenerate days?” Bob wanted to take her thoughts off that other disagreeable subject. His own sudden and unexpected appearance had, no doubt, been quite upsetting to those other guests. That tango music had a wild irresponsible sound, as if the some one who was banging the concert-grand in the big music salon was endeavoring to turn the general trend of fancy into more symphonious channels. He, or she, was a musical good Samaritan. Bob held out a ceremonious arm to the temperamental young thing. “Shall we?” he said. “Why not?”
“You mean—?”
“Tango with me? That is, if you are not above tangoing with a—”