“Am I?”
“Isn’t Bob Stuart a corker? He decorated the whole gym. Never saw flags look any better, did you?”
“No, it’s awfully pretty. I—I think I’ll sit down, Carver, till dancing begins.”
“Sure. Of course. I’ll run and get Bob. He has three with you. Excuse me just a moment.”
How Priscilla ever managed to dance the ten dances before intermission, she never knew. Her cheeks grew redder, her eyes brighter, her poor head spun as though never-ending wheels, eternally wound up, were to whirl around forever. Sometimes the lights of the gymnasium blurred, and something sang in her ears; but still she smiled and moved her feet. At the end of each dance when her charge was returned to her to await the arrival of her partner for the next, Miss Wallace grew more and more anxious.
“Priscilla dear, I’m sure you’re ill. What is it?”
“Really, Miss Wallace, I’ve just a headache. Oh, don’t make me stop, please!”
But at intermission—that blessed time when one could rest and close her eyes when nobody looked her way—at intermission while they sat in Carver’s study and ate ice-cream and cake, Priscilla all at once gave a little worn-out sigh, and fainted quite away. Poor Carver Standish III was all consternation. Had he tired her out? Hadn’t there been enough air in the room? Had he done anything he shouldn’t? He plied Miss Wallace with anxious questionings while a guest, who by good fortune happened to be a doctor, bent over Priscilla.
But Priscilla, coming to herself just then, answered his questions.
“No, you haven’t done a thing, Carver. It’s the German Measles. They wouldn’t stay frozen in!”