They went out and he closed the door. Then, hand-in-hand, laughing like a pair of children, they sped up the stairs and arrived breathless before his door, which he unlocked. And in another minute they were dancing again while a scratched record croaked out a fox-trot.
"I must go," she said, resting one gloved hand on his arm. "I'd love to stay but I mustn't."
"First," he said, "we'll have tea."
"No!"
But presently they were seated on his desk, a plate of sweet biscuits between them, their glasses of sherry touching.
"Unknown but fascinating girl," he said gaily, "I drink to your health and fortune. Never shall I forget our dance together; never shall I forget the charming stranger who took tea with me!"
"Nor shall I forget you!—you very nice boy," she said, looking at him with smiling intentness.
"Would it spoil if we saw each other again?"
"You know that such delightful encounters never bear repetition," she answered. "Now I'm going. Farewell!"
She laughed at him, touched her glass with her lips, set it aside, and slipped to the floor.