Again, I felt terribly sorry for her. Sorry as one feels sorry for a bird that has failed to migrate and sits on its branch in the dreary rain of autumn, knowing the world is wrong, feebly sensing a lost, warmer climate, but unable to resolve the quandary of the dream and the pain of its present. A bird can be a sharp thing with a reptile's appetite—a bright bundle of vanity and vengeance. She smiled, though.
"Those two girls—the redhead and the one with blue-black hair—are very good, aren't they?"
"The dark one's beautiful—like an Indian."
"Probably is part Indian—and also probably a Dodger fan who chews bubble gum and works in Macy's stockroom."
"I wish I could lead—the way she does!"
"That's the boy's department." I laughed. "Sorry! Maybe you're right. Maybe I am prejudiced. Though I regard it as merely the extreme and necessary product of my constant effort to keep track of prerogatives which are defiled and trampled every few seconds in this fair land!" I then added, "If you really want to learn dancing, you have to learn both parts. Yours—the girl's."
She was easily mollified. And she was—not tight—but less cautious about herself. "I never thought of that! It would be interesting!" She looked at me thoughtfully. "Did you ever dance with a man?"
"Of course."
Her gray eyes kept looking. "Was it exciting?"
"Sailors," I said, "dance together on battleships and have fun. That's why sailors are good dancers. I was never a sailor, however. The dancing I've done with guys was when my teacher despaired of being able to show me a step—and called in one of the boys to demonstrate—and to lead it."