"If there is any monopoly, I 'm the guilty one--and enjoying my guilt. Honestly, Miss Bell, it's a fine chance for me to get acquainted with my neighbour, if she 'll let me. And as for my being missed--" A shake of the head told Jane more than its owner meant of his loneliness, at which she had hitherto only guessed.
Meanwhile, Peter had also fallen into friendly hands, if youthful ones. Shirley, allowed to play a modest part in the affairs of the evening, but finding nobody willing to give her more than a smile and nod, fell upon Peter as a possible ally. He had been standing at one side of the crush, in the doorway of the drawing-room, looking on with interested eyes, but feeling a trifle deserted, nevertheless, when he felt a warm little hand slide into his own. Looking down, surprised, he met Shirley's friendly smile.
"You don't know many people, do you?" asked that frank young person.
"I don't know anybody," returned Peter. "No, I ought not to say that, for your brother Forrest presented me to a number of girls. But I don't know how to dance, and they soon left me for livelier company."
"'Nobody asks me to dance, either," said Shirley, "because Olive would n't invite any boys of my age, and the big ones want the big girls."
"I don't," Peter assured her. "I want one about thirteen years old, dressed in a jolly white lacy frock, with pink ribbons and pink slippers. I feel more at home with a girl like that than with any of those I was introduced to. You see, their hair was so--done up!"
"Done up! Was n't your sister's hair done up?" queried Shirley. "Oh no, I remember! Those lovely thick curls of hers were tied in a bunch at her neck--such a lovely way; none of the others do theirs like that. She 's awfully pretty, is n't she? Prettier than Olive, I think."
"I admire my sister very much," agreed Peter, "but it would be hard for anybody to be prettier than your sister."
His eyes turned to Olive as he spoke. She stood near by, exchanging gay talk with a tall youth in the interval between dances. More beautifully dressed than any young girl he had ever seen, her dark face lighted into brilliancy by excitement, the rare colour in her cheeks set off by the big bunch of red roses she carried, she was a picturesque figure indeed.
"Yes, Olive does look pretty," admitted Olive's little sister. "Excuse me a minute, please," she added, and slipped over to Olive's side. If Peter could have heard the brief whispered conversation exchanged, he would hardly have dared to stand watching it, as he did.