She was trying, by various subtle, melancholy little observations to make him feel that she understood that he was not a happy man, and that he might confide in her. His only escape from this harassing conversation was to dance with her (tripping at every second step on her Grecian draperies) and—his only escape from the disasters of the dance was to talk to her.
“Paul!” said Jane in a tone of decision, “something must be done.”
“Eh?”
“I’ll tell you what. You must go down, and ask Amelia to dance with you!”
“What!”
“Yes. Now, do an unselfish act, and it shall be returned to you a thousandfold,” said Jane, unctuously.
“Not interested in any such bargains,” returned Paul.
“Yes. Now, Paul, don’t be stubborn. It’ll only be for a minute. I’ll ask mother to get Daddy to go and rescue you—or Mr. Webster, or Mr. Buchanan.”
“Can’t. Thank heaven, I don’t know how to dance anything but a highland fling.”
“Well, teach Amelia how to do that. Come on, now, Paul—like a good, delicious angel.” And with that she began to tug at his arm.