Again her whole manner changed; she was once more the sweetheart: "Don't let us bother about cards, my darling, or dances, or anything.

Let us talk of how lovely it is to be together again.

Don't you think so, Harry ?" and she snuggled the closer to his arm, her soft cheek against his coat.
Before Harry could answer, young Willits, who had been edging his way up the stairs two steps at a time, avoiding the skirts of the girls, reaching over the knees of the men as he clung to the hand-rail, stood on the step below them.
"It's my next dance, Miss Kate, isn't it ?" he asked eagerly, scanning her face--wondering why she looked so happy.
"What is it to be, Mr.Willits ?" she rejoined in perfunctory tones, glancing at her own blank card hanging to her wrist: he was the last man in the world she wanted to see at this moment.
"The schottische, I think--yes, the schottische," he replied nervously, noticing her lack of warmth and not understanding the cause.
"Oh, I'm all out of breath--if you don't mind," she continued evasively; "we'll wait for the next one." She dared not invite him to sit down, knowing it would make Harry furious--and then again she couldn't stand one discordant note to-night--she was too blissfully happy.
"But the next one is mine," exclaimed Harry suddenly, examining his own dancing-card.

He had not shifted his position a hair's breadth, nor did he intend to--although he had been outwardly polite to the intruder.
"Yes--they'd all be yours, Harry, if you had your way," this in a thin, dry tone--"but you mustn't forget that Miss Kate's free, white, and twenty-one, and can do as she pleases." Harry's lips straightened.

He did not like Willits's manner and he was somewhat shocked at his expression; it seemed to smack more of the cabin than of the boudoir--especially the boudoir of a princess like his precious Kate.