"Will you be good enough to inform what dance is _not_ promised ?" I almost finished "to Mr.
Weaver," but I'm not quite a cad, I hope.
"Really, we haven't programs here to-night," she parried.
I played a reckless lead.

"I wonder," I said, looking straight down into those eyes of hers, and hoping she couldn't suspect the prickles chasing over me at the very look of them--"I wonder if it's because you're _afraid_ to dance with me ?" "Are you so--fearsome ?" she retorted evenly, and I got back instantly: "It would almost seem so." I had the satisfaction of seeing her lip go in between her teeth.

(I should like to say something about those teeth--only it would sound like the advertisement of a dentifrice, for I should be bound to mention pearls once or twice.) "You are flattering yourself, Mr.Carleton; I am not at all afraid to dance with you," she said--and, oh, the tone of her! "I shall expect you to prove that instantly," I retorted, still looking straight into her face.
A quadrille--the old-fashioned kind--was called, and she looked up at me and put out her hand.

Only an idiot would wonder whether I took it.
"This isn't a fair test," I told her, after leading her out in position.
"You won't be dancing with me a quarter of the time, you know.

Only the closest observer may tell, after we once get going, whom you are dancing with." "That," she retorted, with a gleam in her eyes I couldn't--being no lady's man--interpret--"that is a mere quibble, and would not hold in court." "It's going to hold in _this_ court," I answered boldly, and wished I had not so systematically wasted my opportunities in the past--that I had spent more time drinking tea and studying the "infernal feminine." She gave me a quick, puzzling glance, and as we were commanded at that instant to salute our partners, she swept me a half-curtsy that made me grit my teeth, though I tried to make my own bow quite as elaborate and mocking.