Harry,” she answered, opening her fan and waving it slowly. She knew her lover was right—knew more indeed than her lover could ever know: she had used all the arts of which she was mistress to keep Willits from proposing.
“But he IS in love with you,” Harry insisted stiffly. “Won't he be fighting mad, though, when he hears father announce our engagement at supper?” Then some tone in her voice recalled that night on the sofa when she still held out against his pleading, and with it came the thought that while she could be persuaded she could never be driven. Instantly his voice changed to its most coaxing tones: “You won't dance with him, will you, Kate darling? I can't bear to see you in anybody else's arms but my own.”
Her hand grasped his wrist with a certain meaning in the pressure.
“Now don't be a goose, Harry. I must be polite to everybody, especially to-night—and you wouldn't have me otherwise.”
“Yes, but not to him.”
“But what difference does it make? You are too sensible not to understand, and I am too happy, anyway, to want to be rude to anybody. And then you should never be jealous of Langdon Willits.”
“Well, then, not a round dance, please, Kate.” He dare not oppose her further. “I couldn't stand a round dance. I won't have his arm touch you, my darling.” And he bent his cheek close to hers.
She looked at him from under her shadowed lids as she had looked at St. George when she greeted him at the foot of the stairs; a gleam of coquetry, of allurement, of joy shining through her glances like delicate antennae searching to feel where her power lay. Should she venture, as her Uncle George had suggested, to take the reins in her own hands and guide this restive, mettlesome thoroughbred, or should she surrender to him? Then a certain mischievous coquetry possessed her. With a light, bubbling laugh she drew her cheek away.
“Yes, any kind of a dance that he or anybody else wants that I can give him,” she burst out with a coquettish twist of her head, her eyes brimming with fun.
“But I'm on your card for every single dance,” he demanded, his eyes again flashing. “Look at it—I filled it up myself,” and he held up his own bit of paste-board so she could read the list. “I tell you I won't have his arm around you!”
“Well, then, he sha'n't touch even the tips of my fingers, you dreadful Mr. Bluebeard.” She had surrendered now. He was never so compelling as when determined to have his own way. Again her whole manner changed; she was once more the sweetheart: “Don't let us bother about cards, my darling, or dances, or anything. Let us talk of how lovely it is to be together again. Don't you think so, Harry?” and she snuggled the closer to his arm, her soft cheek against his coat.
Before Harry could answer, young Willits, who had been edging his way up the stairs two steps at a time, avoiding the skirts of the girls, reaching over the knees of the men as he clung to the hand-rail, stood on the step below them.
“It's my next dance, Miss Kate, isn't it?” he asked eagerly, scanning her face—wondering why she looked so happy.
“What is it to be, Mr. Willits?” she rejoined in perfunctory tones, glancing at her own blank card hanging to her wrist: he was the last man in the world she wanted to see at this moment.
“The schottische, I think—yes, the schottische,” he replied nervously, noticing her lack of warmth and not understanding the cause.
“Oh, I'm all out of breath—if you don't mind,” she continued evasively; “we'll wait for the next one.” She dared not invite him to sit down, knowing it would make Harry furious—and then again she couldn't stand one discordant note to-night—she was too blissfully happy.
“But the next one is mine,” exclaimed Harry suddenly, examining his own dancing-card. He had not shifted his position a hair's breadth, nor did he intend to—although he had been outwardly polite to the intruder.
“Yes—they'd all be yours, Harry, if you had your way,” this in a thin, dry tone—“but you mustn't forget that Miss Kate's free, white, and twenty-one, and can do as she pleases.”
Harry's lips straightened. He did not like Willits's manner and he was somewhat shocked at his expression; it seemed to smack more of the cabin than of the boudoir—especially the boudoir of a princess like his precious Kate. He noticed, too, that the young man's face was flushed and his utterance unusually rapid, and he knew what had caused it.
“They will be just what Miss Seymour wants them to be, Willits.” The words came in hard, gritting tones through half-closed lips, and the tightening of his throat muscles. This phase of the Rutter blood was dangerous.
Kate was startled. Harry must not lose his self-control. There must be no misunderstandings on this the happiest night of her life.
“Yes,” she said sweetly, with a gracious bend of her head—“but I do want to dance with Mr. Willits, only I don't know which one to give him.”
“Then give me the Virginia reel, Miss Kate, the one that comes just before supper, and we can go all in together—you too, Harry,” Willits insisted eagerly. “See, Miss Kate—your card is still empty,” and he turned toward her the face of the one hanging to her wrist.
“No, never the reel, Kate, that is mine!” burst out Harry determinedly, as a final dismissal to Willits. He lowered his voice, and in a beseeching tone said—“Father's set his heart on our dancing the reel together—please don't give him the reel!”
Kate, intent on restoring harmony, arched her neck coyly, and said in her most bewitching tones—the notes of a robin after a shower: “Well, I can't tell yet, Mr. Willits, but you shall have one or the other; just leave it to me—either the reel or the schottische. We will talk it over when I come down.”
“Then it's the reel, Miss Kate, is it not?” he cried, ignoring Harry completely, backing away as he retraced his steps, a look of triumph on his face.
She shook her head at him, but she did not answer. She wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible. Willits had spoiled everything. She was so happy before he came, and Harry was so adorable. She wished now she had not drawn away her cheek when he tried to kiss her.
“Don't be angry, Harry, dear,” she pleaded coaxingly, determined to get her lover back once more. “He didn't mean anything—he only wanted to be polite.”
“He didn't want to be polite,” the angry lover retorted. “He meant to force himself in between us; that is what he meant, and he's always at it, every chance he gets. He tried it at Mrs. Cheston's the other night until I put a stop to it, but there's one thing certain—he'll stop it when our engagement is announced after supper or I'll know the reason why.”
Kate caught her breath. A new disturbing thought entered her mind. It was at Mrs. Cheston's that both Willits and Harry had misbehaved themselves, and it was Harry's part in the sequel which she had forgiven. The least said about that night the better.
“But he is your guest, Harry,” she urged at last, still determined to divert his thoughts from Willits and the loss of the dance—“OUR guest,” she went on—“so is everybody else here to-night, and we must do what everybody wants us to, not be selfish about it. Now, my darling—you couldn't be impolite to anybody—don't you know you couldn't? Mrs. Cheston calls you 'My Lord Chesterfield'—I heard her say so to-night.”
“Yes,
