"I don't care," said Floss, "I want to dance."
"Do ask him," urged the Marchesa, grasping at this opportunity to get back her Spaniard.
The prince had no choice but to summon the proptietor and make the request, which was obligingly granted.
"The floor has a heavy carpet," said the prince by way of final discouragement.
"I could dance on a wavy ocean tonight," declared Floss. "I'm feeling grand. All I need is a young and handsome partner. Come on, Grover. If they don't like it," she added, indicating the few strangers present, "they can go home. What do we care!"
The extra tables had been pushed back and the musicians took a new lease of life. The prince, gracefully accepting the inevitable, invited the Marchesa to dance, and in a moment only Mamie and Oscar Hellgren were left at the table. Mamie had got on terms with the sculptor and as she listened to his long cumbersome anecdotes she kept tying herself up in acrobatic knots in the hope, Grover guessed, that Hellgren would be filled with a desire to imprison her undulations, if not her voice and the ravelled gold embroidery, in marble.
"Whew!" exclaimed Floss, coming back to the table with renewed appetite. "Let's have some champagne."
When the music recommenced, Grover caught the eyes of Olga. Was it accidental, he wondered, or were the lids pressing out of sight a tiny glint of challenge?
