"Oh, that we two were Maying!"
"You misread our announcement," said Beverley Byrd, romping up. "No opening for young men here, Gardy! Butt out."
West left her, his well-shaped head in something of a whirl. In another minute he was off with Miss Avery upon a gallant two-step.
Fetzy's played on; the dancers floated or hopped according to their nature; and presently a waltz faded out and in a breath converted itself into the march for supper, the same air always for I don't know how many years.
Miss Avery rose slowly from her seat, a handsome siren shaped, drilled, fitted, polished from her birth for nothing else than the beguiling of lordly man. From the heart of her beautiful bouquet she plucked a spray of perfect lily-of-the-valley, and, eyes upon her own flowers, held it out to West.
"They are beautiful," she said in her languorous voice. "I hadn't thanked you for them, had I? Wear this for me, will you not?" She looked up and her long eyes fell—we need not assume for the first time—upon the flower in his lapel. "I beg your pardon," she said, with the slightest change of expression and voice. "I see that you are already provided. Shall we not go up?"
Laughing, he plucked a red, red rose from his buttonhole and jammed it carelessly in his pocket.
"Give it to me."
"Why, it's of no consequence. Flowers quickly fade."
"Won't you understand?... you maddening lady. I've known all these girls since they were born. When they offer me flowers, shall I hurt their feelings and refuse? Give it to me."