Stolidly he “looked over” the girls as they went past. He was surprised to find so many of them really beautiful. There was one in particular who was dressed in the costume of the harem,—scarlet with spangles,—and whose fair, almost childish, face suggested moonlight and a kind of misplaced romance. Her light hair hung prettily over her forehead. She talked with her partners in an intimate way. He was introduced to her. But he could proceed no more than a few steps before some one cut in; and although he repeated this process several times, he found at last more satisfaction in gazing at her from a distance and experiencing a tantalizing feeling in the unattainableness of her beauty. After all, it did not matter much since he was engaged to a girl fully as beautiful. Besides, there were plenty of others to dance with. And presently he became aware of a slim, dark-haired figure, in a gipsy costume, which often swept by him. He looked more closely at the face; and once he caught the mischievous, half-serious glance of her eyes.
“Who is that?” he asked his friend, standing beside him.
“Who?”
“That girl in a gipsy dress.”
“That’s Helen Trumbull. Want to meet her?”
“Yes.”
His friend dragged him by the arm into the midst of the dancers. Roger could not help thinking how ridiculous his brown plaid trousers must appear.
“Mr. Lockwood—Mr. Trumbull.”
They danced. Roger experienced a slight thrill in the way she held him. Her touch was very delicate. But she kept her hand perhaps a trifle too far toward the back of her neck.
“Here I am at last,” he said. “I have been looking for you all evening.”