"Come on—be game," he said.
"The season's closed," Louise's flippancies had not been without their effect on her. It was easier to drop back into her own language. "No, really—tell me, why do people drink things that taste like that?"
He met her on her own ground. "You've got to drink, to let go, to have a good time. It breaks down inhibitions." She noted the word. The use of such words was one of the things that marked his difference from the others. "God knows why," he added wearily. "But what's the use of living if you don't hit the high spots? And there's a streak of—perversity—depravity in me that's got to have this kind of thing."
Their group swooped down about the table, and the general ordering of more drinks ended their talk. There was a clamor when Helen said she did not want anything. Duddy swept away her protests and ordered for her, but momma came to the rescue.
"Let the kid alone; she's not used to it. You stick to lemon sours, baby. Don't let them kid you," she said. The chatter swept on, leaving her once more unnoticed, but when the music called again Mr. Kennedy took her out among the dancers.
"You're all right," he said. "Just let yourself go and follow me. It's only a walk to music." And unaccountably she found herself dancing, felt the rhythm beat through blood and nerves, and stiffness and awkwardness drop away from her. She felt like a butterfly bursting from a chrysalis, like a bird singing in the dawn. She was so happy that Mr. Kennedy laughed at the ecstacy in her face.
"You look like a kid in a candy-shop," he said, swinging her past a jam with a long, breathless swooping glide and picking up the step again.
"I'm—per-fect-ly-happy!" she cried, in time to the tune. "It's awfully good—of you-ou!"
He laughed again.
"Stick to me, and I'll teach you a lot of things," he said.