With this end in view he faithfully devoted himself to whatever partner was given him by Louis, who had taken him in charge and was enjoying to the full the spectacle of “Rich” Kendrick exerting himself, as he had probably never done before, to give pleasure to those with whom he was thrown.  At last Fate and Roberta were kind to him.  It was Louis, however, who manipulated Fate in his behalf.

Catching his sister as one of her cousins, a young son of Uncle Henry, released her, Louis drew her into a corner—­as much of a corner as one could get into with a sister at whom, wherever she turned, half the company was looking.

“See here, Rob, you’re not playing fair with the guest.  Here’s the evening half over and you haven’t given him a solitary chance.  What’s the matter?  You’re not afraid of His Highness?”

“This is a dance for the uncles and cousins,” retorted Roberta, “not for society young men.”

“But he’s done his duty like a man and a brother.  He’s danced with aunts and cousins, too, and has done it as if it were the joy of his life.  But I know what he wants and I think he deserves a reward.  The next waltz will be a peach, ‘Roses Red.’  Give it to the poor young millionaire, Robby; there’s a good girl.”

“Bring him here,” said she with an air of resignation, and she turned to a group of young people who had followed her as bees follow their queen.  “Not this time, dears,” said she.  “I’m engaged for this dance to a poor young man who has wandered in here and must be made to feel at home.”

“Is that the one?” asked one of the pretty country cousins, indicating Richard, who, obeying Louis’s beckoning hand, was crossing the floor in their direction.  “Oh, you won’t mind dancing with him.  He’s as nice as he is good-looking, too.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” said Roberta.

The next minute “the poor young man” was before her.  “Am I really to have it?” he asked her.  “Will you give me the whole of it and not cut it in two, as I saw you do with the last one?”

“It would be rather a pity to cut ‘Roses Red’ in two, wouldn’t it?” said she.

“The greatest pity in the world.”  He was looking at her cheek in the last instant before they were off.  Talk of roses!  Was there ever a rose like that cheek?

Then the music sent them away upon its wings and for a space measured by the strains of “Roses Red” Richard Kendrick knew no more of earth.  Not a word did he speak to her as they circled the great room again and again.  He did not want to mar the beauty of it by speech—­ordinary exchange of comment such as dancers feel that they must make.  He wanted to dream instead.

“Look at Rob and Mr. Kendrick,” said Ruth in Rosamond’s ear.  “Aren’t they the most wonderful pair you ever saw?  They look as if they were made for each other.”

“Don’t tell Rob that,” Rosamond warned her enthusiastic sister-in-law.  “She would never dance with him again.”