Dorothy drew down the corners of her dimpled mouth with the expression of one who foresees dire disaster.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Oh, Justin, you're so severe and hard and dictatorial! I just know you won't let me do anything after we're married!"
"Then, why do you marry me?"
"Because I want to. But I do want you to be a little kinder to me, a little more lenient, a little more gentle—"
Naughty Dorothy squeezed out a tear or two, which, as she had fully intended, brought Arnold to his knees, figuratively. He did not actually kneel, but he gathered the little witch in his arms, and said, "Don't cry, dear. You shall have everything you want, and nothing you don't want, after we're married! There, how does that suit your little ladyship?"
"That's all right then;" and Dorothy smiled through what was left of her two tears. "And now, Justin, you must take me back, for I've promised this dance to Mr. Chapin."
"Chapin? I say, Dorothy, it's awfully good of you to give him a dance, when you have so many more interesting men at your feet. Dance with him all you like, dear, but don't dance much with Cam Crosby, will you?"
"Jealous of your own cousin! Fie, fie! I won't promise. He has asked me for a whole heap of dances."
"I don't doubt that, but I give you fair warning: every time I see you with him, I'm coming to take you away. I only wish I could dance myself, and then no other man should have a single turn."
"You're an old fogy, Justin! You can't dance, and you can't play bridge, and you can't do much of anything gay and jolly!" Then, as a dark frown settled on her lover's face, she whispered, close to his ear, "But I love you," and then turned quickly, to find Ernest Chapin waiting for her.
"Don't let's dance; let's sit it out," he said, leading her back to the very same little veranda where she had just been with Arnold. It was a dear little nook, with moonlight gleaming through the tracery of vines, which made weird black shadows on its light stone floor.
It was secluded from passers-by, and as Chapin paused and drew Dorothy to him, in the dark of its shadows, he whispered passionately, "Dear, I can't stand it! I can't see you with him, and see his air of ownership of you!"
"But I'm going to marry him. Why shouldn't he show an air of ownership?" Dorothy spoke coldly, but she was trembling, and her large eyes lifted themselves to Chapin's face with a despairing glance.
He clasped her two little hands tightly in his own.
"You are selling yourself to him!" he exclaimed, in tense, low tones. "You know you love me, and yet you are marrying Arnold because he is rich."
"It is not so! You have no right to talk to me like that! I adore him; I worship the ground he walks on!"
"You blessed baby!" said Chapin, putting his arm around her. "The very emphasis you put on those ridiculous words proves how false they are. Dorothy, dearest, tell me just once that you do love me, and I will let you go."
"You must let me go, any way, Ernest. Don't hold me, please don't! Justin may come back at any moment."
"I don't care. I wish he would! Dorothy, how can you marry that man, almost old enough to be your father? How can you sell yourself for wealth and high position?"
But Dorothy's senses had returned. "I'm not doing anything of the sort, Mr. Chapin, and I command you to stop talking to me like that. As you know, I never even saw you until after I was engaged to marry Mr. Arnold. If I had met you sooner—" There was a little break in Dorothy's voice, and Chapin whispered despairingly: "Oh, darling, if you only had!"
"And now," Dorothy went on, "there is nothing more to be said on this subject, now or ever. It is not honorable in you, Mr. Chapin, nor in me. In a few weeks I shall marry Mr. Arnold, and I hope I may trust you never to say anything of this nature to me again."
"I hope you may trust me, Dorothy," said the man brokenly, "but I know I cannot trust myself."
"At least, we can try," said Dorothy, in a low voice, and then without another word they returned to the dancing-room.
"Mine!" cried Emory Gale, as he caught sight of Dorothy, and went toward her with open arms.
"What!" exclaimed Arnold, who was hovering near.
"Heavens, old man! don't kill me! I only meant this is my dance with Miss Duncan."
"Oh," said Arnold, who was miserably jealous and couldn't hide it. He dropped into a chair and watched the girl he loved enfolded in another man's arms. Not being a dancer, Arnold couldn't look on such an embrace impersonally. His reason told him that every girl on the dancing floor was necessarily encircled by her partner's arms, but that didn't take away his hatred of seeing Dorothy so close to Emory Gale. He would have objected equally to any other man, but Gale was a daredevil, and Arnold knew him better than Dorothy did. Still, he couldn't forbid her dancing with one of his own house guests, and, incidentally, one of his own lawyers. Gale and Crosby were the successors of the firm that had been his father's lawyers, and so Justin employed them, although a firm doing business in New York would often have been more convenient.
"Your little friend seems peeved," said Gale to Dorothy as they dipped and sidestepped.
"Rather!" said Dorothy, carelessly; "he can't bear to see me dance. He doesn't dance at all, you know, and he thinks it's a personal affront to him when I do. Besides, these new dances are a sort of revelation to him. When he was young, he saw the polka redowa and such things, he tells me, and then he went into his shell and never came out till he was engaged to me, and now these 'aesthetic' dances shock him all to pieces."
"But he must be educated up to them," returned Gale, as he skilfully piloted his light-footed partner among the maze of people.
"Yes," and Dorothy shook her pretty head decidedly; "for I expect to dance as long as I live."
"Let's give him a benefit lesson now, then, and help his education along as rapidly as possible!" Gale smiled into Dorothy's eyes, and the girl understood. Both of them were excellent dancers and well versed in all the newest and most intricate steps. Both knew how to exaggerate or prune the effects of the more conspicuous dances, and Dorothy gleefully consented to be led around toward the corner where Arnold waited for her return. She was always ready for mischief and she liked Emory Gale, but, too, she honestly wanted her future husband to realize that it was her intention to dance all she chose and as she chose, both before and after her marriage to him.
So, as they neared Arnold, their step became more daring, their pose more relaxed, and though it meant nothing to the dancers, Arnold saw it and went white with fury. Without looking at her fiancé, Dorothy kept her earnest gaze on Gale, partly to watch his intended direction, and as much to tease the man who looked angrily after her.
"He's madder'n hops," announced Gale, cheerfully; "shall we go round again?"
Dorothy had lost her head a little in the whirling rhythm, and she only whispered, "Yes," and went on dipping and swaying to the enticing music.
"Let's do that last new 'Humoresque,'" murmured Gale, as they neared Arnold, and as they passed him, both were engrossed in the intricacies of the difficult dance.
Arnold, in his ignorance, mistook their absorption for interest in each other, and ground his teeth in rage as they went
