"Martha?" exclaimed Emily, shocked. "Where? I don't see her." She had scarcely seen her all evening.
"Over there. Look!" She pointed with her eye to the farther side of the crowd, where it was overflowing to the veranda.
Johnnie said—he spoke shortly, "She's dancing!"
"Well! Well! Maybe she is." Mrs. Benton was condoning already her tone of reproof.
But Emily had at first sight thought it appropriate, because—well, what in the world WAS Martha doing? Emily had fairly started with annoyance when she saw her. To her first glance it was disgusting. And then, as she looked, chagrined, perplexed,—well—it wasn't disgusting. Really, perhaps, the position in which Martha and her partner were obviously worming their way about was not one which, after long deliberations on the subject, the committee had thought best to forbid on the floor. It was that man—his face—the way he was bending down, being tall, to look at her. It was, most of all, Emily realized in a flash, angrily, the way Martha was holding her sweet little face, entranced, up to him. What in the world were those two talking about?
"Who is that man?" Emily asked Johnnie. She was too annoyed to observe how keenly Johnnie was watching the sight.
"I don't know. Never saw him before."
"There's nothing we can take exception to in THAT!" Mrs. Benton seemed almost to regret the fact.
Johnnie looked at her indignantly and ineffectively.
Emily resented the suggestion sharply. The very idea that anyone might take exception to her daughter, that the committee might disapprove of her child's attitude, hurt her deeply. For Martha Kenworthy was distinctly a nice girl. Everybody had always known that she was a very superior, quiet, well-behaved, dear child. Mothers consulted her mother about their naughty children. And now Cora Benton—but just the same, it did look as if Martha in that little flesh-colored frock, was almost cuddling up against—that—somebody—whom Emily at first shocked sight heartily disliked.