"You might adopt me," she pursued. "On account of mother. You were fond of her, weren't you?" He regarded her with a slight frown which vanished as he realised that this was no adventurous impertinence such as her references to Constance. "I don't see how you could help but be; she was so beautiful.... But no; I couldn't be anyone's daughter but Dad's, even adopted."
"Granddaughter," suggested Scott mockingly.
"I take it all back!" she cried, her spirits quite restored. "You aren't nearly as old as I thought you were; and twice as nice. We'll just be friends, won't we? And I'll be awfully good and never say anything catty about Con again. Come on; there's the music. Let's dance. This is somebody else's but I don't care."
At the door she stretched her arms above her head in a long sweep, a hovering, expectant gesture as if she were going to give herself into a profound and enduring embrace, then leaned to him as the swirl of the rhythms caught them. He felt her fresh young cheek pressed to his, close and warm, and drew away a little.
"What's the matter?" she asked naïvely. "Don't you like it?"
Perplexed for the moment and a little startled by the sweetness of the contact, he did not answer at once.
"I thought we were to be friends," she murmured mournfully.
With a sudden understanding he realised that she had nestled to him as unconsciously as a kitten; that her natural expression of the merest comradeship was physical. In a manner, innocently so.
After that dance he did not see her again until, just before her departure, she dashed up to him to say, "I've been terribly good all evening. It isn't so hard." Then, peering at him anxiously: "You don't despise me, do you, Mr. Scott?"
The innate pathos of it made it hard for him to control his voice, though he answered easily but sincerely: