“Oh, but I will! You were wishing like all possessed that you could be in my shoes for one little hour.”
Dorothy flushed and took refuge in an admonishing:
“How you do put things, Octavia Travers!”
“You were thinking that if your darling Garry were coming instead of Nat, you would be fox-trotting madly along this road instead of pursuing your course with every evidence of decorum,” persisted the outrageous Tavia. “Now ’fess up. Ain’t I right?”
“Maybe—all except the fox-trot,” agreed Dorothy, with a laugh. “I prefer the waltz myself.”
“Um—dreamy stuff, lights low, soft music,” drawled Tavia. “I imagine that would just suit you, Doro dear. As for myself, give me jazz every time!”
“When do you expect Nat?” asked Dorothy, jolted out of her dreamy abstraction.
“Right now, any minute. We are liable to bump into him at any corner,” replied Tavia vigorously. “My goodness, Doro, my heart is palpitating frightfully. I wonder if one ever dies of such things.”
“You won’t, that one thing is sure,” said Dorothy, looking with admiration at her chum’s flushed face and dancing eyes. “Just now you look like nothing so much as an advertisement for health food.”
“How unromantic,” Tavia reproached her. “And just when I was pining gracefully for poor Nat, too.”