"I don't know whether you remember me, Miss Ives—?" he began, when he could extend a hand.
Julie turned her splendid, unsmiling eyes toward him.
"Mr. Polk. How do you do? Yes, indeed, I remember you," she said, unenthusiastically. "How is Mr. Gilbert?"
"Uncle John? Oh, he's fine!" said young Polk, rapturously. "I wonder why he didn't tell me you were spending the summer here!"
"I don't tell any one," said Julie, simply. "My winters are so crowded that I try to get away from people in the summer."
"Oh!" said the boy, a little blankly. There was an instant's pause before he added rather uncomfortably:
"Miss Ives—Miss Carter has been so anxious to meet you—"
"How do you do, Miss Carter?" said Julie, promptly, politely. She gave her young adorer a ready hand. The usually poised Dancing Girl could not recall at the moment one of the things she had planned to say when this great moment came. But she thought of them all as she lay in bed that night, and the conviction that she had bungled the long-wished-for interview made her burn from her heels to the lobes of her ears. What HAD she said? Something about having longed for this opportunity, which the actress hadn't answered, and something about her desperate admiration for Miss Ives, at which Miss Ives had merely smiled. Other things were said, or half said—the girl reviewed them mercilessly in the dark—and then the interview had terminated, rather flatly. Marian Carter writhed at the recollection.
But the morning brought courage. She passed Julie, who was fresh from a plunge in the ocean, and briskly attacking a late breakfast, on her way from the dining-room.
"Good morning, Miss Ives! Isn't it a lovely morning?"