When Meredith came to her for the third dance she had given him, the two first of which he had danced conscientiously all through without a word that could not be breathed in the course of the twistings and whirling, Gussy declared she was too tired to dance any more.
“Then let us sit it out together,” he said; “there is a nice corner I know where we may be as private as if we were all alone, yet see everybody—if you wish to see everybody. I think it must have been arranged expressly for you and me there are two such comfortable chairs.”
“You have put that corner to use before,” said Gussy.
“Several times,” he answered, promptly; “one must do something with one’s partner if, for example, she doesn’t dance well, or there is any other drawback. I have been conducting myself more or less like the son of the house to-night. You may think me presumptuous to say so, but I think, after Dolff, I have almost the best right to look after your guests, Gussy, and see that it goes off well. Do you allow my claim?”
In that dark corner which he had occupied a little before with Janet it was not possible to see the warm blush, like a fresh tide of life, which came over Gussy’s face; but something of that warm, sweet flood of consciousness could be made out in the melting of her voice.
“Oh, yes,” she said, with a happy tremor, “you have known us longer than any one here—almost all your life.”
“All our lives,” said Meredith, with a little emphasis on the pronoun. “I can’t remember the time when we didn’t know each other, can you, Gussy? There is nothing else can come so near as that. And I have been taking it upon me to entertain your guests as if they were my own.”
“Thank you very much for that, Charley.”
“Oh no, you need not thank me. You will do as much or more for me when the time comes—when I shall have guests of my own. But I am not well enough off to think of that yet. A little patience and then my turn will come.”
“I thought,” said Gussy, “you were telling mamma the other night——”