He caught her arms and clasped them about his neck but as his muddled senses were unequal to responding to the rhythm of the music the performance resolved itself chiefly into an attempt on Grace’s part to keep him on his feet.
“Sorry I stepped on you. Awfu’ sorry, Grace. Wouldn’t step on you for anything in this wide, wide world.”
“Oh, it was great fun!” Grace cried when the record had played itself out. She was determined to make the best of it, but Trenton, mopping his brow, intervened.
“Tommy, you’re too rough! Grace doesn’t want to dance any more; we’re going to have our coffee. You go and dance with Irene.”
“Poor sport! Awfu’ poor sport,” Kemp retorted as Trenton led Grace away. He bawled after them his conviction that they were both poor sports and resumed dancing with Irene.
Jerry had placed the coffee-tray in a long, comfortably furnished sun porch opening off the dining room, where the music and the voices from the living room penetrated only feebly.
“I think I’m going to like this better,” said Grace with a sigh of relief.
“A little calm is agreeable after a rough house,” said Trenton watching her intently as she seated herself by the table and filled the cups. “Tommy never knows his limit,” he went on, taking a cigarette from a silver box on the stand. “He can’t carry the stuff as he used to and he doesn’t act pretty when he’s shot. But he recovers quickly; he’ll be all right soon. Irene knows how to manage him. One lump, thank you.”
Grace was still breathing deeply from the violence of her romp with Kemp. She was hoping that Trenton would renew the talk she had been enjoying at the table; but his silence was disconcerting. She wondered whether he was not purposely waiting for her to speak, to show her reaction to the scenes in which they had been participating in the living room.
She turned to him presently with a slight smile on her lips.