“Good Lord! is that you? Who was the fascinating stranger who kept me waiting so long?”
“Don’t you wish you knew?” she laughed. “Where are you now? At the shipyard?”
“No, I’m in Washington––ran up on business. Can I see you to-night?”
“I hope so––unless we’re going out––as I believe we are. Hold the wire, won’t you, while I ask.” She came back in due season to say, “Polly says you are to come to dinner and go to a dance with us afterward.”
“A dance? I’m not invited.”
“It’s a kind of club affair at a hotel. Polly has the right to take you––no end of big bugs will be there.”
“I’m rusty on dancing, but with you––”
“Thanks. We’ll expect you, then. Dinner is at eight. Wrap up well. It’s cold, isn’t it?”
He thought it divine of her to think of his comfort. The thought of her in his arms dancing set his heart to rioting. He was singing as he dressed, and as he rode put to Grinden Hall, singing a specimen of the new musical insanity known as “jazz”––so pestilential a music that even the fiddlers capered and writhed.
The Potomac was full of tumultuous ice, and the old Rosslyn bridge squealed with cold under the motor. It was 249 good to see the lights of the Hall at last, and to thaw himself out at the huge fireplace.