Herbert had brought her the water by this time, and she drank it eagerly.
“Now I am all right,” she said, “but think I’d better go home. What time is it?”
Against this there was a quiet protest from Fred, and a louder one from Herbert, who resolved to be ahead of his cousin, and said:
“Fred brought you here, but I am to see you home, and must wait till the people from Springfield and Worcester leave, at twelve o’clock. That is not late, and I want you for the next dance.”
He looked a little defiantly at Fred, and there was an air of ownership in his manner as he took her on his arm and went back to the piazza, where the awnings were now rolled up to admit the cool night air, and showed nearly as many spectators gathered outside as there were dancers within.
It was a brilliant scene, with the lanterns and moonlight, and flowers and music, and gayly dressed people, and Louie was the star around which everything revolved. There was no lack of partners for her, and except when she was singing, she danced every set but one, which she sat through with Herbert, who kept close to her as if she were his particular property.
Fred had relinquished the field, and only came near her once when she was sitting with Herbert. There was a sudden lighting up of Louie’s eyes at sight of him, for she had missed him, and, without knowing why, was glad to have him near her, although he said nothing except to ask if she were too tired to give them another song.
“Yes, she is,” Herbert answered for her. “We are to have one dance more before the thing breaks up, and then I am to take her home. The walk will do us both good.”
“Walk!” Fred repeated, in some surprise. “Walk, and she so tired?”
Herbert’s countenance fell, but brightened again when Louie rejoined: