"Some
of Clara Hinsdale's play," he explained. "You made a devastating
impression on her, boy; you were wise enough not to talk any, and she
foolishly thought you were as interesting as you looked. We're going out
to a country-club dance. It's given for the devotees who stay here all
summer and swear Rouen is always cool; and nobody dances but me and the
very young ones. It won't be so bad; you can smoke anywhere, and there are
little tables. We'll go."
"Thank you, Tom, you're so good to think of it, but----"
"But what?"
"Would you mind going alone? I find it very pleasant sitting on your
veranda, or I'll get a book."
"Very well, if you don't want to go, I don't. I haven't had a dance for
three months and I'm still addicted to it. But of course----"
"I think I'd like to go." Harkless acquiesced at once, with a cheerful
voice and a lifeless eye, and the good Tom felt unaccountably mean in
persisting.
They drove out into the country through mists like lakes, and found
themselves part of a procession of twinkling carriage-lights, and cigar
sparks shining above open vehicles, winding along the levels like a canoe
fete on the water. In the entrance hall of the club-house they encountered
Miss Hinsdale, very handsome, large, and dark, elaborately beaming and
bending toward them warmly.
"Who do you think is here?" she said.
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