“Surely not like that now,” Leslie replied in a low voice, feeling really hurt.
“I do though! I will race you to the bottom.”
“No, no, dear!” He held her back. When he came to the wicket leading on to the front lawns, he said something to her softly, as he held the gate.
I think he wanted to utter his half finished proposal, and so bind her.
She broke free, and, observing the long lawn which lay in grey shadow between the eastern and western glows, she cried:
“Polka!—a polka—one can dance a polka when the grass is smooth and short—even if there are some fallen leaves. Yes, yes—how jolly!”
She held out her hand to Leslie, but it was too great a shock to his mood. So she called to me, and there was a shade of anxiety in her voice, lest after all she should be caught in the toils of the night’s sentiment.
“Pat—you’ll dance with me—Leslie hates a polka.” I danced with her. I do not know the time when I could not polka—it seems innate in one’s feet, to dance that dance. We went flying round, hissing through the dead leaves. The night, the low hung yellow moon, the pallor of the west, the blue cloud of evening overhead went round and through the fantastic branches of the old laburnum, spinning a little madness. You cannot tire Lettie; her feet are wings that beat the air. When at last I stayed her she laughed as fresh as ever, as she bound her hair.
“There!” she said to Leslie, in tones of extreme
