I asked for the next two-step.

"The next two-step is also promised--to Mr. Weaver."

I began to have unfriendly feelings toward Mr. Weaver. "Will you be good
enough to inform what dance is _not_ promised?" I almost finished "to Mr.
Weaver," but I'm not quite a cad, I hope.

"Really, we haven't programs here to-night," she parried.

I played a reckless lead. "I wonder," I said, looking straight down into
those eyes of hers, and hoping she couldn't suspect the prickles chasing
over me at the very look of them--"I wonder if it's because you're
_afraid_ to dance with me?"

"Are you so--fearsome?" she retorted evenly, and I got back instantly:

"It would almost seem so."

I had the satisfaction of seeing her lip go in between her teeth. (I
should like to say something about those teeth--only it would sound like
the advertisement of a dentifrice, for I should be bound to mention pearls
once or twice.)

"You are flattering yourself, Mr. Carleton; I am not at all afraid to
dance with you," she said--and, oh, the tone of her!

"I shall expect you to prove that instantly," I retorted, still looking
straight into her face.