"I fancied I could take the Carnival as a child takes a big bonbon and
just think with a smack of the lips, 'My! how good this is.' But here
I am, wondering what my candy is made of all the time, and forgetting,
except at odd moments, to enjoy myself for trying to separate false from
true, and gold from gilt. Still, what is the use of this stuff now! I'll
remember that horse race, for there I did forget myself and everything
but motion. How I would like to be a horse!" And the volatile Mae seized
the stems of her bouquet for whip and bridle and gave a little inelegant
expressive click-click to her lips as if she were spurring that
imaginary steed herself.

Norman smiled. "We can't keep children for ever, even--"

"The silliest of us?"

"Even the freshest and blithest."

"O, dear, that is like a moral to a Sunday-school book," said Mae;
"don't be goody-goody to-night."

"What bad thing shall I do to please your majesty, my lady Pasquino?"

"Waltz," said Mae. So, after dinner, Edith and Eric sang, and Norman and
Mae took to the poetry of motion as ducks take to water, and outdanced
the singers.

"Thank you," said Mae, smiling up at him. "This has done me good." She
pushed the brown hair back from her forehead and drew some deep breaths
and leaned back in her chair, still tapping her eager, half-tired foot