“I think it was a great success,” she said. “Everybody seemed to enjoy it.”
“Of course they did. I know I did. I never had such a beautiful, galumptious time in my life.”
Rosamund gave her a gravely inspecting side-glance.
“You tore your dress round the bottom, I saw. There was quite a large piece trailing on the floor.”
“Yes, it was dreadful,” said June, nestling closer about the sitting figure and smiling in dreamy delight. “Somebody trod on it while I was dancing, and then they danced away with it round them, and it tore off me in yards, as if I was a top and it was my string.”
“Were you dancing with Jerry Barclay?” asked Rosamund.
“I don’t think so.” She turned her head in profile on the pillow and looked at her sister out of the corner of her eye. Meeting Rosamund’s sober glance she broke into suppressed laughter.
“What’s the matter with you, Rosie?” she said, giving her a little kick through the bed-clothes; “you look as solemn as an undertaker.”
“I don’t think you ought to have danced so often with Jerry Barclay. It—it—doesn’t look well. It—” she stopped.
“‘It’—well, go on. Tell me all about it. A child could play with me to-night. You couldn’t make me angry if you tried.”