"I'm not such a bad lot after all, am I?" he demanded.
With my best spontaneous gesture I put my free hand over his as it held
mine.
"I'm so sorry, so terribly sorry, if I've misunderstood," I said
earnestly.
Wallace had gone to the outer door. Russell Hill stooped over and kissed
my hand.
Well, it was working. An hour before I was one of what I'd heard he had
called "the dolly dozen." Now, by merely letting him understand that he
couldn't have what he'd never wanted, he was eager.
We sat out one dance under the stairs, and an intermission in a pantry
while the musicians who had been stationed there were getting their
supper. He tried to hold my hand and I drew it away--not too fast, but
so he could understand the struggle I was having between duty and
inclination. And we talked about love.
I said I liked to play round with men and have a good time and all that
sort of thing, but that I thought I was naturally cold.
"You cold?" he said. "It's only that the right man has not come along."
"I've known a good many. A good many have--have----"
"Cared for you? Of course. They're not fools or blind. Look here, I'm
going to ring you up now and then."
"I think you'd better not."
"If I'm not to see you and not to telephone, how's this friendship of
ours to get on?"
"People who are real friends don't need to see each other."
"That's the first real débutante speech you've made to-night. Now, see
here, I'm going to see you again, and often. And I'm going to ring you
up. What's your tailor's name?"