“What bad thing shall I do to please your majesty, my lady Pasquino?”
“Waltz,” said Mae. So, after dinner, Edith and Eric sang, and Norman and Mae took to the poetry of motion as ducks take to water, and outdanced the singers.
“Thank you,” said Mae, smiling up at him. “This has done me good.” She pushed the brown hair back from her forehead and drew some deep breaths and leaned back in her chair, still tapping her eager, half-tired foot against the floor, while Norman fanned her with his handkerchief.
This time Bero and the strange, veiled lady and Miss Hopkins and every other confusing thought floated off, and left them quite happy for—well—say for ten minutes.
And ten minutes consecutive enjoyment is worth waiting for, old and cynical people say.
The next morning brought back all her troubles, with variations and complications, on account of some more misunderstood words.
“I think,” said Mae, as she paused to blot the tenth page of a home letter, “that likes and dislikes are very similar, don’t you, Edith?” Then, as Edith did not reply, she glanced up, and saw that her friend’s chair was occupied by Norman Mann. He looked up also and smiled.
“I am not Edith, you see, but I am interested in your theory all the same. Only, as I am a man, I shall require you to show up your reasons.”
“Well, I find that people who affect me very intensely either way, I always feel intuitively acquainted with. I know what they will think and how they will act under given conditions, and I believe we are driven into friendship or strong dislikes more by the force of circumstances than by—”