It seemed to be modern enough for the cheerful young officer, and they were suddenly revolving with the rest. . .  A tide of long-forgotten girlhood welled up in her heart, and she laughed as she floated off on it past the astonished eyes of Miss Triscoe and Burnamy.  She saw them falter, as if they had lost their step in their astonishment; then they seemed both to vanish, and her partner had released her, and was helping Miss Triscoe up from the floor; Burnamy was brushing the dust from his knees, and the citizen who had bowled them over was boisterously apologizing and incessantly bowing.

“Oh, are you hurt?” Mrs. March implored.  “I’m sure you must be killed; and I did it!  I don’t know, what I was thinking of!”

The girl laughed.  “I’m not hurt a bit!”

They had one impulse to escape from the place, and from the sympathy and congratulation.  In the dressing-room she declared again that she was all right.  “How beautifully you waltz, Mrs. March!” she said, and she laughed again, and would not agree with her that she had been ridiculous.  “But I’m glad those American girls didn’t see me.  And I can’t be too thankful papa didn’t come!”

Mrs. March’s heart sank at the thought of what General Triscoe would think of her.  “You must tell him I did it.  I can never lift up my head!”

“No, I shall not.  No one did it,” said the girl, magnanimously.  She looked down sidelong at her draperies.  “I was so afraid I had torn my dress!  I certainly heard something rip.”

It was one of the skirts of Burnamy’s coat, which he had caught into his hand and held in place till he could escape to the men’s dressing-room, where he had it pinned up so skillfully that the damage was not suspected by the ladies.  He had banged his knee abominably too; but they did not suspect that either, as he limped home on the air beside them, first to Miss Triscoe’s pension, and then to Mrs. March’s hotel.

It was quite eleven o’clock, which at Carlsbad is as late as three in the morning anywhere else, when she let herself into her room.  She decided not to tell her husband, then; and even at breakfast, which they had at the Posthof, she had not got to her confession, though she had told him everything else about the ball, when the young officer with whom she had danced passed between the tables near her.  He caught her eye and bowed with a smile of so much meaning that March asked, “Who’s your pretty young friend?”

“Oh, that!” she answered carelessly.  “That was one of the officers at the ball,” and she laughed.

“You seem to be in the joke, too,” he said.  “What is it?”

“Oh, something.  I’ll tell you some time.  Or perhaps you’ll find out.”

“I’m afraid you won’t let me wait.”

“No, I won’t,” and now she told him.  She had expected teasing, ridicule, sarcasm, anything but the psychological interest mixed with a sort of retrospective tenderness which he showed.  “I wish I could have seen you; I always thought you danced well.”  He added:  “It seems that you need a chaperon too.”