“And I think it quite too bad,” she assured him––“which is why I don’t like to talk about it.”
She sprang to her feet again.
“Now, Don, you must practice with me some of the new steps. You’ll get very rusty if you don’t.”
“I’d rather hear you sing,” he ventured.
“This is much more important,” she replied.
She placed a Maxixe record on the Victrola that stood by the piano; then she held out her arms to him.
“Poor old hard-working Don!” she laughed as he rose.
It was true that it was as poor old hard-working 70 Don he moved toward her. But there was magic in her lithe young body; there was magic in her warm hand; there was magic in her swimming eyes. As he fell into the rhythm of the music and breathed the incense of her hair, he was whirled into another world––a world of laughter and melody and care-free fairies. But the two most beautiful fairies of all were her two beautiful eyes, which urged him to dance faster and faster, and which left him in the end stooping, with short breaths, above her upturned lips.