“Thethelia,” she lisped.
Dicky admired. But the admiration of his sex is notoriously fatal to the art that attracts it. He advanced and bowed jerkily, grasped one of the loops of her sash in the back, stamped gently a moment to get the time, and the artist sank into the partner, the pirouette grew coarse to sympathize with clay.
“Don’t they do it well, though! See those little things near the door!” he caught as they went by, and his heart swelled with pride.
“What’s your name?” he asked abruptly after the dance.
“Thethelia,” she lisped, and shook her hair over her cheek. She was very shy.
“Mine’s Richard Carr Pendleton. My father’s a lawyer. What’s yours?”
“I—I don’t know!” she gasped, obviously considering flight.
He chuckled delightedly. Was ever such engaging idiocy? She didn’t know. Well, well!
“Pooh!” he said grandly, “I guess you know. Don’t you, really?”