The dance was well in progress when Larry and Ruth arrived. The latter was greeted cordially and not too impressively by gay little Sue Emerson, their hostess, and her friends. Ruth was ensconced comfortably in a big chair where she could watch the dancers and talk as much or little as she pleased. Everybody was so pleasant and natural and uncurious that she did not feel frightened or strange at all, and really enjoyed the little court she held between dances. Pretty girls and pleasant lads came to talk with her, the latter besieging her with invitations to dance which she refused so sweetly that they found the little Goldilocks more charming than ever for her very denial.
They rallied Larry however on his rigorous dragonship and finally Ruth herself dismissed him to dance with his hostess as a proper guest should. She never meant he must stick to her every moment anyway. That was absurd. He rose to obey reluctantly; but paused to ask if she wouldn't dance with him just once. No, she couldn't—didn't even know whether she could. He mustn't try to make her. And seeing she was in earnest, Larry left her. But Ted came skating down the floor to her and he begged for just one dance.
"Oh, I couldn't, Ted, truly I couldn't," she denied.
But obeying a sudden impulse Ted had swooped down upon her, picked her up and before she really knew what was happening she had slid into step with him and was whirling off down the floor in his arms.
"Didn't I tell you, sweetness?" he exulted. "Of course you can dance. What fairy can't? Tired?" He bent over to ask with the instinctive gentleness that was in all Holiday men.
Ruth shook her head. She was exhilarated, excited, tense, happy. She could dance—she could. It was as easy and natural as breathing. She did not want to stop. She wanted to go on and on. Then suddenly something snapped. They came opposite Sue and Larry. The former called a gay greeting and approval. Larry said nothing. His face was dead white, his gray eyes black with anger. Both Ted and Ruth saw and understood and the lilt went out of the dance for both of them.
"Oh Lord!" groaned Ted. "Now I've done it. I'm sorry, Ruth. I didn't suppose the old man would care. Don't see why he should it you are willing. Come on, just one more round before the music stops and we're both beheaded."
But Ruth shook her head. There was no more joy for her after that one glimpse of Larry's face.
"Take me to a seat, Ted, please. I'm tired."
He obeyed and she sank down in the chair, white and trembling, utterly exhausted. She was hurt and aching through and through. How could she? How could she have done that to Larry when he loved her so? How could she have let Ted make her dance with him when she had refused to dance with Larry? No wonder he was angry. It was terrible—cruel.