For a long while they remained mute, unstirring, as the endless reel droned on and on.
Finally,—and very careful not to touch her,—he ventured to whisper:
“Why not make it this evening—unless you are otherwise engaged?”
He could scarcely hear her reply: “Mr. Smull is giving a dinner for Betsy. I promised to go.”
“Who is giving the party?”
“Mr. Smull.”
Again he experienced a vague sense of irritation.
“I thought you had no dinner gown,” he said drily.
“Betsy offered me one of hers.”
After a silence he said cheerfully: “I hope you’ll have a gay evening, Eris. Call me up when you care to dine with me.”