“Do you feel as if your hands were full of silver?” she asked almost wistfully, mocking.
“Better than that,” he replied gently.
“And your heart full of gold?” she mocked.
“Of hell!” he replied briefly.
Alice looked at him searchingly.
“And am I like a blue-bottle buzzing in your window to keep your company?” she asked.
He laughed.
“Good-bye,” she said, slipping down and leaving him.
“Don’t go,” he said—but too late.
The irruption of Alice into the quiet, sentimental party was like taking a bright light into a sleeping hen-roost. Everybody jumped up and wanted to do something. They cried out for a dance.
“Emily—play a waltz—you won’t mind, will you, George? What! You don’t dance, Tom? Oh, Marie!”
“I don’t mind, Lettie,” protested Marie.
“Dance with me, Alice,” said George, smiling “and Cyril will take Miss Tempest.”
“Glory!—come on—do or die!” said Alice.
We began to dance. I saw Lettie watching, and I looked round. George was waltzing with Alice, dancing passably, laughing at her remarks. Lettie was not listening to what her lover was saying to her; she was watching the laughing pair. At the end she went to George.
“Why!” she said, “You can——”
“Did you think I couldn’t?” he said. “You are
