“Carley, do you still go in for dancing?” Glenn asked, presently, with his thoughtful eyes turning to her.
“Of course. I like dancing, and it’s about all the exercise I get,” she replied.
“Have the dances changed—again?”
“It’s the music, perhaps, that changes the dancing. Jazz is becoming popular. And about all the crowd dances now is an infinite variation of fox-trot.”
“No waltzing?”
“I don’t believe I waltzed once this winter.”
“Jazz? That’s a sort of tinpanning, jiggly stuff, isn’t it?”
“Glenn, it’s the fever of the public pulse,” replied Carley. “The graceful waltz, like the stately minuet, flourished back in the days when people rested rather than raced.”
“More’s the pity,” said Glenn. Then after a moment, in which his gaze returned to the fire, he inquired rather too casually, “Does Morrison still chase after you?”
“Glenn, I’m neither old—nor married,” she replied, laughing.