I called up all my courage and fortitude, and started toward her.

I was determined to ask her to dance, and I got some chilly comfort out of the reflection that she couldn't do any worse than refuse; still, that would be quite bad enough, and I will not say that I crossed that room, with three or four hundred eyes upon me, in any oh-be-joyful frame of mind.

I rather suspect that my face resembled that plebeian and oft-mentioned vegetable, the beet.

I was within ten feet of her, and I was thinking that she couldn't possibly hold that cool, unconscious look much longer, when a hand feminine was extended from the row of silent watchers and caught at my sleeve.
"Ellie Carleton, it's never you!" chirped a familiar voice.
I turned, a bit dazed with the unexpected interruption, and saw that it was Edith Loroman, whom I had last seen in the East the summer before, when I was gyrating through Newport and all those places, with Barney MacTague for chaperon, and whom I had known for long.

Edith had chosen to be very friendly always, and I liked her--only, I suspected her of being a bit too worldly to suit me.
"And why isn't it I?
I can't see that my identity is more surprising than yours," I retorted, pulling myself together.