With an effort, she pulled herself together, and turned smiling to Carrie, moving her skirt a little to make room for her.
“You don’t care for kiss-in-the-ring, ducky?” Carrie began effusively. “No more do I. I think it’s common, don’t you? I think a girl oughtn’t to let herself be kissed by anybody—only her beau. Have you got a beau?” she inquired confidentially.
“A bow?” asked Bridget, with a momentary puzzled frown. “Oh I see! No, I haven’t.”
“Why don’t you set your cap at one of the gentlemen here?” Carrie whispered. “Mr. Spiller, now. He’s good-looking, isn’t he? and I’m sure he’s awfully gone on you. You’ve mashed him awfully.”
Bridget involuntarily drew her dress a little closer to her, and straightened herself. Then she resolutely turned to the girl again.
“Oh! I don’t know,” she answered vaguely, laughing a little.
“Now, missus, I ain’t goin’ to wait a minute longer for my supper. Come along, you young folks. Take your ladies, young gentlemen, and follow me.”
Mr. Jenkins seized the plump girl with the green sleeves, tucked her hand under his arm, and pranced out of the room into the oil-cloth covered landing. There was much confusion and a babel of tongues, as the couples filed after him. Bridget saw Mr. Spiller coming towards her, and shrank hopelessly in her corner.
“There! I told you so, ducky,” whispered Carrie, as she took the arm of her acknowledged beau. “He’s awfully gone.”
“Are you engaged, Miss Ruan. Pardon me—I did not mean permanently—though for my sake I hope not. But may I?—will you favor me?—supper?”