"Carley, do you still go in for dancing?" Glenn asked, presently, with
his thoughtful eyes turning to her.
"Of course. I like dancing, and it's about all the exercise I get," she
replied.
"Have the dances changed--again?"
"It's the music, perhaps, that changes the dancing. Jazz is becoming
popular. And about all the crowd dances now is an infinite variation of
fox-trot."
"No waltzing?"
"I don't believe I waltzed once this winter."
"Jazz? That's a sort of tinpanning, jiggly stuff, isn't it?"
"Glenn, it's the fever of the public pulse," replied Carley. "The
graceful waltz, like the stately minuet, flourished back in the days
when people rested rather than raced."
"More's the pity," said Glenn. Then after a moment, in which his gaze
returned to the fire, he inquired rather too casually, "Does Morrison
still chase after you?"
"Glenn, I'm neither old--nor married," she replied, laughing.
"No, that's true. But if you were married it wouldn't make any
difference to Morrison."
Carley could not detect bitterness or jealousy in his voice. She would
not have been averse to hearing either. She gathered from his remark,
however, that he was going to be harder than ever to understand.
What had she said or done to make him retreat within himself, aloof,
impersonal, unfamiliar? He did not impress her as loverlike. What
irony of fate was this that held her there yearning for his kisses and
caresses as never before, while he watched the fire, and talked as to
a mere acquaintance, and seemed sad and far away? Or did she merely
imagine that? Only one thing could she be sure of at that moment, and it
was that pride would never be her ally.
"Glenn, look here," she said, sliding her chair close to his and holding
out her left hand, slim and white, with its glittering diamond on the
third finger.
He took her hand in his and pressed it, and smiled at her. "Yes, Carley,
it's a beautiful, soft little hand. But I think I'd like it better if it
were strong and brown, and coarse on the inside--from useful work."
"Like Flo Hutter's?" queried Carley.
"Yes."
Carley looked proudly into his eyes. "People are born in different
stations. I respect your little Western friend, Glenn, but could I wash
and sweep, milk cows and chop wood, and all that sort of thing?"
"I suppose you couldn't," he admitted, with a blunt little laugh.