"Oh no, you haven't. You've only seen me with my party manners on."
"But you—you—oh, I can't talk to this music. Will you sit down a moment somewhere?"
"No, indeed. I came here to dance, and I wish you would stick to your knitting."
"You haven't answered my question. Are you engaged to that man?"
"Oh, so he is 'that man' already?"
"Are you going to marry him?"
"I'm no prophet, Mr. Forbes."
The medley broke into the ribald tune of a popular song: a woman's celebration of the generosity of her keeper whom she called "Daddy," and who always brought her gifts. The refrain was a disgustingly irresistible hilarity: "Here comes my Daddy now, Pop, oh, Pop, oh Pop!" Half the dancers shouted the refrain as they whirled.
Forbes' heart selected from the sordid lyric only its rejoicing. He selected from Persis' words only the hope they negatively implied. He began to dance in a frenzy, locking knee to knee, whipping her off her feet, and clenching her sweet body so close to him that she gasped:
"I have to breathe, you know."