pretend to be one of those large-minded men who are always painfully
unprejudiced. Weaver looked like a pretty good sort, and under other
circumstances I should probably have liked him, but as it was
I emphatically did not.

However, I got a waltz, after a heart-breaking delay, and it was worth
waiting for. I had felt all along that we could hit it off pretty well
together, and we did. We didn't say much--we just floated off into
another world--or I did--and there was nothing I wanted to say that
I dared say. I call that a good excuse for silence.

Afterward I asked her for another, and she looked at me curiously.

"You're a very hard man to convince, Mr. Carleton," she told me, with that
same queer look in her eyes. I was beginning to get drunk--intoxicated, if
you like the word better--on those same eyes; they always affected me,
somehow, as if I'd never seen them before; always that same little tingle
of surprise went over me when she lifted those heavy fringes of lashes.
I'm not psychologist enough to explain this, and I'm strictly no good at
introspection; it was that way with me, and that will have to do.

I told her she probably would never meet another who required so much
convincing, and, after wrangling over the matter politely for a minute,
got her to promise me another waltz, said promise to be redeemed after
supper.

I tried to talk to "Aunt Lodema," but she would have none of me, and she
seemed to think I had more than my share of effrontery to attempt such a
thing. Mrs. Loroman was better, and I filled in fifteen minutes or so very
pleasantly with her. After that I went over to Edith and got her to sit