“No, don’t try to trot,” says she.  “Just balance and keep time, and swing two or three times at the turn.  Keep your feet apart, you know.  Now back me.  Swing!  There, you’re getting it.  Keep on!”

Some spieler, Robbie; and whether or not that was just a josh about orchids bein’ invented for her, there’s no doubt but what ragtime was.  Yes, yes, that’s where she lives.  And me?  Well, I can’t say I hated it.  With her coachin’ me, and that snappy music goin’, I caught the idea quick enough, and first I knew we was workin’ in new variations that she’d suggest, doin’ the slow toe pivot, the kitchen sink, and a lot more.

We stopped long enough to have tea and cakes served, and then Robbie insists on tryin’ some new stunts.  There’s a sidewise dip, where you twist your partner around like you was tryin’ to break her back over a chair, and we was right in the midst of practisin’ that when who should show up but the happy bridegroom.  And someway I’ve seen ’em look more pleased.

[Illustration:  We was right in the midst of practisin’ the sidewise dip, when who should show up but the happy bridegroom!]

“Oh, that you, old Grumpy?” says young Mrs. Talbot, stoppin’ for a minute.  “You remember Torchy, from Uncle Robert’s office, don’t you?  He came up with some orchids.  We’re having such fun too.”

“Looks so,” says Nick.  “Can’t I cut in?”

“Oh, bother!” says Robbie.  “No, I’m tired now.”

“Just one dance!” pleads Nick.

“Oh, afterward, perhaps,” says she.  “There!  Just look at those silly orchids!  Aren’t they sights?” With that she snakes ’em out and tosses the wilted bunch careless over the veranda rail.  “And now,” she adds, “I must dress for dinner.”

“You’ve nearly two hours, Pet,” protests Nick.  “Come to the outlook with me and watch the sunset.”

“It’s too lonesome,” says Robbie, and off she goes.

It should have happened then, if ever.  I was standin’ by, waitin’ for him to cut loose with the cruel words, and maybe introduce a little hair-draggin’ scene.  But Nick Talbot just stands there gazin’ after her kind of sad and mushy, not even grindin’ his teeth.  Next he sighs, drops his chin, and slumps into a chair.  Honest, that got me; for it was real woe showin’ on his face, and he seems to be strugglin’ with it man fashion.  Somehow it seemed up to me to come across with a few soothin’ remarks.

“Sorry I butted in,” says I; “but Mr. Robert sent me up with the flowers.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” says he.  “Glad you came.  I—­I suppose she needed someone else to—­to talk to.”

“But you wouldn’t stand for invite the leftovers on your honeymoon, eh?” I suggests.

“No, hang it all!” says he.  “That was too much.  She—­she mentioned it, did she?”

“Just casual,” says I.  “I take it things ain’t been goin’ smooth gen’rally?”