work, for Floss said "Oh!" and went on with her second tartine.
Poor little Marthe, thought Grover. What pain it would cause her to see him in this rich setting, within such an intimate distance of the girl who was so unmistakably his "type."
Wine had been poured and for the next hour the dinner grew toward an amalgamation of hilarities, Grover remained silent through most of it, except to laugh automatically with the rest, while the wine and the music pursued each other through his veins till he scarcely knew which was which. It was subdued American jazz, a kaleidoscope which caught up the soft sheen of the evening sky through the open windows, the earthy scent from the hedges suggestive of early spring, the agreeable appearance and flavor of nameless dishes, the colors of lights and gowns, all of which seemed to shade up to, or away from, nasturtium.
Stop talkin' 'bout your sweetie,
Let's talk about my sweetie now.
Floss was singing the words and beating time with a friendly smile over her shoulder to the violinist in the balcony.
"I want to dance," she suddenly announced.
The prince was a little shocked. In this temple where food was a cult and not a mere excuse for exercise, dancing was unheard of.
