Olga Obosky yawned luxuriously. “I am so sleepy. My sandals, Governor Percivail. I am going home.”
He picked up the sandals lying on the grass beside him and held them out to her. She coolly extended one of her feet.
“It cannot bite you. Put zem on for me, your Excellency.”
WEST WIND DRIFT
He knelt and, slipping the sandals on one after the other, fastened the straps over her bare insteps.
“So,” she sighed. “Thank you. Good night, Ruthkin. No! I shall go home alone. There is nothing to be afraid of now on zis island, my dear. The ardent Fernandez is playing—what you call it?—pea-knuckles?—he is playing pea-knuckles away off yonder on zat prison island, as he has been playing for nearly a year.”
Little she knew of Fernandez!
Ruth and Percival walked around the corner of the porch with her, out of sight of the others.
“It was a perfectly ravishing dance, Olga,” said he. “If I live a thousand years I shall never forget how beautiful it was.”
“You see?” cried Olga softly, pressing Ruth's hand. “Was I not right?”