“But you mustn’t kiss me!” she cried, hastily placing the table between herself and Gethryn; “you have not yet been presented. Oh, Rex! Don’t be so—so idiotic; you spoil my dress—there—yes, only one, but don’t you dare to try—Oh Rex! Now I am all in wrinkles—you—you bear!”
“Bears hug—that’s a fact,” he laughed. “Come, are you ready—or I’ll just—”
“Don’t you dare!” she cried, whipping off her mask and attempting an indignant frown. She saw the big bunch of white violets in his hand and made a diversion by asking what those were. He told her, and she declared, delightedly, that she should carry them with Rex’s roses to the Ball.
“They shall have the preference, Monsieur,” she said, teasingly. “Oh, Rex! don’t—please—” she entreated.
“All right, I won’t,” he said, drawing her wrap around her; and Yvonne, replacing the mask and gathering up her fluffy skirts, slipped one small gloved hand through his arm and danced down the stairs.
On the corner of the Vaugirard and the Rue de Medicis one always finds a line of cabs, and presently they were bumping and bouncing away down the Rue de Seine to the river.
Je fais ce que sa fantaisie
Veut m’ordonner,
Et je puis, s’il lui faut ma vie
La lui donner
sang Yvonne, deftly thrusting tierce and quarte with her fan to make Gethryn keep his distance.
“Do you know it is snowing?” he said presently, peering out of the window as the cab rattled across the Pont Neuf.
“Tant mieux!” cried the girl; “I shall make a snowball—a—” she opened her blue eyes impressively, “a very, very large one, and—”