“Yes, I remember; it made me feel so foolish!”
“Well, you know, my love, I am very proud of you; and so I was looking around to see what others thought of you. I give you my word, I nearly exploded when I caught sight of the Don. There he sat, with an oyster on the end of his fork poised midway between his plate and his mouth, with his eyes riveted on you. Put this down in your book, Mary,—this,—as a maxim on love: ‘Whenever a man forgets the way to his mouth his heart’s in danger.’”
“I will,” said Mary, shaking with laughter.
“Yes,” continued Alice, standing before the glass and taking down her hair, “you have a streak of genius, that’s the truth; but it is not the whole truth.”
“Give me the rest of it.”
Alice, instead of replying, made a face at herself in the glass; then, folding her arms across her bosom and swaying from side to side two or three times, sailed off in a waltz around the room.
“The trouble with you, my dear, is simply this,”—and she stood before her friend with arms akimbo,—“you are devoid of common sense.” And off she capered again, this time in the rhythm of the polka. “Oh, I’m so happy!” cried she, clasping her hands and rolling up her eyes.
“Because I have no common sense?”
“Because I have so much! I’ve lots! Oceans!” And she spread out her arms. Catching sight of her own waving arms in the mirror, she, like the kaleidoscope, changed in an instant. Standing on her left foot, she described, with the extended toe of her right, an elaborate semicircle, and ended with a profound courtesy, her young face corrugated, meanwhile, with that professional grin of the equestrienne, which, among the horsical, passes for a smile. Turning then to Mary, she repeated the movement. “Behold,” cried she, drawing herself up to her full height,—“behold the Empress of the Arena! The Champion Bare-back Rider of the World!”
“I don’t know so much about the champion part of it, but of the bare back there can be little doubt.”