“Who is that girl Rudolph is dancing with?”
“You surely don’t expect to find me posted up in the names and parentage of all the young ladies of Athens?” laughed the easy baron, looking round.
“Have you eyes in your head? Can’t you see that they are flirting?” protested the baroness.
“He certainly is greatly taken up with her. I fear, my dear, instead of being the muff I believed him, your nephew is an inveterate flirt. But I’ll inquire about her.”
The baron went back to Mrs. Mowbray Thomas, and the popular poet passing, the baroness touched his arm with her fan, and smiled him an arch invitation.
“M. Michaelopoulos,” she asked, taking his arm, “you know everybody in Athens, don’t you?”
The poet modestly deprecated any such pretension.
“Well, at least you can tell me who that exceedingly attractive young lady is my nephew is dancing with.”
The poet glanced down the room and singled out the couple.
It was impossible for the dullest observer to mistake the language of eyes that constantly dwelt on each other, and the foolish alacrity with which their hands met and clasped in the decorous dance.