Don't be silly, Queenie!" insisted Mrs.Saxon.

"I say you're to go, so there's an end of it." "I'll go for an evening's martyrdom, then, not for enjoyment!" wailed her daughter dolefully.
A first grown-up dance is often a terrible ordeal to a girl of eighteen, and Quenrede, though she had put on a few airs to impress the schoolgirls at the Rainbow League sale, was at bottom woefully bashful.
She was still in the stage when her newly-turned-up hair looked as if it were unaccustomed to be coiled round her head; she had a painful habit of blushing, and had not yet acquired that general _savoir faire_ which comes to us with the passing of our teens.

To be plunged for a whole evening into the society of a succession of strangers seemed to her anything but an exhilarating prospect.
"If I could just dance with our own boys!" she sighed.
"I'd pity you if you did!" declared Ingred, pausing in an effort to make Athelstane's steps more worthy of a ball-room.

"Why, half the fun will be your different partners.

I only wish I'd your chance and was 'coming out' too!" "I'm sure you're welcome to go instead of me," proclaimed Quenrede petulantly.
All the same she watched the preparations for the event with considerable girlish interest.