SON OF THE WIND
directly into his face, "you won't go off up-stairs and leave me to get through with it alone? I am so tired, it seems to me if I have to play whist all the evening with Bert, I shall die! You will stay down and play too, and help me out?"
Carron had no wish to avoid Ferrier. He had, on the contrary, the greatest interest to see him. The change in his expression at mention of the fellow's name had led the girl astray, and he was not unwilling to make capital of her mistake.
"I'll tell you," he bargained, "I will if we can be partners."
"Oh, why not? Of course we can." The idea seemed far from displeasing to her. She swung around with a little pirouette. Under serious pines the carpet displayed large and extraordinarily pink roses at least two feet apart. "The joy of mother's heart," Blanche explained, and began to make little dancing steps from one to another. These assumed rhythm—then measure, the figure of a dance, and Carron joined it. One-two-three to the left, one-two-three to the right, forward, back, two, cross over—then ignoring the precedent of always stepping on flowers, he whirled her. She was light, but not diaphanous. They trod a wildish measure, quicksilver in her heels, the elixir of youth or something keener in his spirits. Her breath was quick
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