A quadrille--the old-fashioned kind--was called, and she looked up at me
and put out her hand. Only an idiot would wonder whether I took it.

"This isn't a fair test," I told her, after leading her out in position.
"You won't be dancing with me a quarter of the time, you know. Only the
closest observer may tell, after we once get going, whom you are dancing
with."

"That," she retorted, with a gleam in her eyes I couldn't--being no lady's
man--interpret--"that is a mere quibble, and would not hold in court."

"It's going to hold in _this_ court," I answered boldly, and wished I had
not so systematically wasted my opportunities in the past--that I had
spent more time drinking tea and studying the "infernal feminine."

She gave me a quick, puzzling glance, and as we were commanded at that
instant to salute our partners, she swept me a half-curtsy that made me
grit my teeth, though I tried to make my own bow quite as elaborate and
mocking. I couldn't make her out at all during that dance. Whenever we
came together there was that little air of mockery in every move she
made, and yet something in her eyes seemed to invite and to challenge. The
first time we were privileged, by the old-fashioned "caller," to "swing
our partners," milady would have given me her finger-tips--only I wouldn't
have it that way. I held her as close as I dared, and--I don't know but
I'm a fool--she didn't seem in any great rage over it. Lord, how I did
wish I was wise to the ways of women!

The next waltz I couldn't have, because she was to dance it with Mr.
Weaver. So I had the fun of sitting there watching them fly around the
room, and getting a good-sized dislike of the fellow over it. I don't