otherwise."

"Yes, but not to him."

"But what difference does it make? You are too sensible not to
understand, and I am too happy, anyway, to want to be rude to anybody.
And then you should never be jealous of Langdon Willits."

"Well, then, not a round dance, please, Kate." He dare not oppose her
further. "I couldn't stand a round dance. I won't have his arm touch
you, my darling." And he bent his cheek close to hers.

She looked at him from under her shadowed lids as she had looked at
St. George when she greeted him at the foot of the stairs; a gleam
of coquetry, of allurement, of joy shining through her glances like
delicate antennae searching to feel where her power lay. Should she
venture, as her Uncle George had suggested, to take the reins in her
own hands and guide this restive, mettlesome thoroughbred, or should
she surrender to him? Then a certain mischievous coquetry possessed her.
With a light, bubbling laugh she drew her cheek away.

"Yes, any kind of a dance that he or anybody else wants that I can
give him," she burst out with a coquettish twist of her head, her eyes
brimming with fun.

"But I'm on your card for every single dance," he demanded, his eyes
again flashing. "Look at it--I filled it up myself," and he held up his
own bit of paste-board so she could read the list. "I tell you I won't
have his arm around you!"

"Well, then, he sha'n't touch even the tips of my fingers, you dreadful
Mr. Bluebeard." She had surrendered now. He was never so compelling as
when determined to have his own way. 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,
notici