Patricia was examining the pleats in her skirt, laying each one carefully into its exact crease. If only she wouldn’t feel so like crying every time she talked about the entertainment. She had never been in anything as large as this before, and was looking forward to inviting some people down from home. How glad she was that she had held up the invitations!
“There is a way,” she continued, as soon as she could control her voice, “that the dance could be given just the same, if you will only agree.”
“I won’t make a solo of it, because it would be a complete frost. Anyhow, I don’t want to go on without you. I need you for inspiration,” he added, with a mischievous grin.
“It’s nice of you to put it that way, but your desire to make the affair a success should furnish enough ‘inspiration.’ The omission of that dance leaves an awful gap in the performance.”
“Don’t I know it?” gloomily.
“Well, then, ask Clarice Tyson to take my place.”
As if shot, the boy sprang from his chair. If Patricia had hurled a bomb at his head, he couldn’t have been much more shocked.
“Nothing doing!” he exclaimed violently.
“Hush! Don’t get so excited. Sit down and listen to me.”
The look of mingled astonishment and disgust on his face was so funny that Patricia almost had to laugh. Just in time, she succeeded in choking back her amusement. This was not a time for mirth; the case required diplomatic handling.