“Well,” said Roger, “it isn’t a question of models; it’s a question of more or less.”
“And where would you put me—more or less?”
He hesitated, seeking for a clever twist to give the words.
“Oh there! You see! I have made a wrong impression.”
“I was going to say more. But sometimes my first impressions are wrong.”
“And I suppose you would like to have them wrong?”
How cleverly she had touched upon a forbidden subject!
“Yes,” he said, “I would.”
They both laughed then, for it seemed that they had already attained a kind of intimacy. He was aware that her charms emanated not only from the way she spoke these, but also from the whole expression of her face and her body, which was tantalizing—a vague innuendo. He compared her, not unfavorably, to Georgiana, his absent fiancée. But then he cursed himself for a fool. Georgiana and he had grown up together.
They returned to the dance, chatting easily, arm in arm. But when supper came, which was an informal affair, he found himself leading her into a secluded corner of the room, where they settled themselves into their chairs, and sipped coffee luxuriously.