“Who is that?”

“Laura Madison.  Why aren’t we?  What a self-respecting creature she is, with that cool, sweet steadiness of hers—­she’s like a mountain lake.  She’s lovely and she plays like an angel, but so far as anybody’s ever thinking about her is concerned she might almost as well not exist.  Yet she’s really beautiful to-night, if you can manage to think of her except as a sort of retinue for Cora.”

“She is rather beautiful to-night.  Laura’s always a very nice-looking girl,” said Richard, and with the advent of an idea, he added:  “I think one reason she isn’t more conspicuous and thought about is that she is so quiet,” and, upon his companion’s greeting this inspiration with a burst of laughter, “Yes, that was a brilliant deduction,” he said; “but I do think she’s about the quietest person I ever knew.  I’ve noticed there are times when she’ll scarcely speak at all for half an hour, or even more.”

“You’re not precisely noisy yourself,” said Ray.  “Have you danced with her this evening?”

“Why, no,” returned the other, in a tone which showed this omission to be a discovery; “not yet.  I must, of course.”

“Yes, she’s really `rather’ beautiful.  Also, she dances `rather’ better than any other girl in town.  Go and perform your painful duty.”

“Perhaps I’d better,” said Richard thoughtfully, not perceiving the satire.  “At any rate, I’ll ask her for the next.”

He found it unengaged.  There came to Laura’s face an April change as he approached, and she saw he meant to ask her to dance.  And, as they swam out into the maelstrom, he noticed it, and remarked that it was rather warm, to which she replied by a cheerful nod.  Presently there came into Richard’s mind the thought that he was really an excellent dancer; but he did not recall that he had always formed the same pleasing estimate of himself when he danced with Laura, nor realize that other young men enjoyed similar self-help when dancing with her.  And yet he repeated to her what Ray had said of her dancing, and when she laughed as in appreciation of a thing intended humorously, he laughed, too, but insisted that she did dance “very well indeed.”  She laughed again at that, and they danced on, not talking.  He had no sense of “guiding” her; there was no feeling of effort whatever; she seemed to move spontaneously with his wish, not to his touch; indeed, he was not sensible of touching her at all.

“Why, Laura,” he exclaimed suddenly, “you dance beautifully!”

She stumbled and almost fell; saved herself by clutching at his arm; he caught her; and the pair stopped where they were, in the middle of the floor.  A flash of dazed incredulity from her dark eyes swept him; there was something in it of the child dodging an unexpected blow.

“Did I trip you?” he asked anxiously.

“No,” she laughed, quickly, and her cheeks grew even redder.  “I tripped myself.  Wasn’t that too bad—­just when you were thinking that I danced well!  Let’s sit down.  May we?”