his head close to hers.

"That I'll leave you to find out, Rod!" she said laughingly.

"Well--that's one of the things I'm back here to find out!" he
answered gaily.

Yes, he was back to stay; he was to go into the Bank. He confidently
expected to die of the shock and Martie must help him bear it.
Martie promised to open an account. His Dad might let him have a
car, if he behaved himself; did Martie like automobiles? Martie knew
very little about them, but was sure she could honk the horn. Very
well; Martie should come along and honk the horn.

How did they come to be talking of dancing? Martie could not
afterward remember. Rodney had a visit promised from a college
friend, and wondered rather disconsolately what might be arranged to
amuse him. Fortnightly dances--that was the thing; they ought to
have Friday Fortnightlies.

The very word fired the girl. She heard the whine of violins, the
click of fans, the light shuffle of satin-clad feet. Her eyes saw
dazzling lights, shifting colours, in the dull September twilight.

"You could have one at your house," Rodney suggested.

"Of course we could! Our rooms are immense," Martie agreed eagerly.

"To begin--say the last Friday in October!" the boy said. "You look
up the date, and we'll get together on the lists!"