"Oh, yes," I replied; "that is, I did dance once; but of late years I have been too much occupied. We live quietly."
"You say 'we.'"
"I mean my mother and I; I should have said 'poorly,' perhaps, instead of 'quietly,' And I am busy."
She bowed her head kindly, and said, smiling:
"But you are not busy to-night; and if you'll not think me forward, I will reverse the etiquette, and ask you to dance with me."
"Indeed I will do so with very great pleasure."
"Are you sure?"
"Could you doubt it?"
"I was so very rude to you!"
And she hung her head. That, then, was the secret of her choice of my arm. I could only assure her that I did not think her rude, and I hoped she would forget the whole incident. I was pleased in spite of all—for I like to think well of women. The cynical writers say they are all mean, and mercenary, and cowardly. Was Annie? She had left many finely-dressed gentlemen, faultlessly appointed, to dance with a poor stranger, quite out at elbows.