“Then I’ll forgive you. What more can you ask?”
“Nothing,” said Phil, his heart warming, and his face reflecting the smile that accompanied Lucia’s promise. The quadrille was really as easy as had been promised: indeed, Phil found it almost identical, except in lack of grace, with an alleged calisthenic exercise which a pious teacher had once introduced in Haynton’s school. The motion of swinging a partner back to position by an encircling arm puzzled him somewhat, as he contemplated it, but Lucia kindly came to his assistance, and ’twas done almost before he knew it,—done altogether too quickly, in fact. And although he honestly endeavored to analyze the wickedness of it, and to feel horrified and remorseful, his mind utterly refused to obey him.
“There!” exclaimed Lucia, as the quadrille ended, and, leaning on Phil’s arm, she moved toward a seat. “You didn’t seem to find that difficult.”
“Anything would be easy, with you for a teacher,” Phil replied.
“Thanks,” said Lucia, with a pretty nod of her head.
“And I’m ever so much obliged to Miss Dinon for urging me to try,” continued Phil.
“Agnes Dinon is a dear old thing,” said Lucia, fanning herself vigorously.
“Old?” echoed Phil. “A woman like Miss Dinon can never be old.”
Lucia’s fan stopped suddenly; again the strange jealous look came into her face, and she said,—
“I should imagine you had been smitten by Miss Dinon.”