"I hate dancing, don't you?" she said. "Let's go over there, out of
the crowd, and have a nice long talk."
Sandy glanced at the place indicated. It seemed a long way from base.
"Wouldn't you like to stand here and watch them?" he floundered
helplessly.
"Oh, dear, no; it's too crowded. Besides," she added playfully, "I
have heard _so_ much about you and your awfully romantic life. I just
want to know all about it."
As a trout, one moment in mid-stream swimming and frolicking with the
best, finds himself suddenly snatched out upon the bank, gasping and
helpless, so Sandy found himself high and dry against the wall, with
the insistent voice of his captor droning in his ears.
She had evidently been wound and set, and Sandy had unwittingly
started the pendulum.
"Have you ever been to Chicago, Mr. Kilday? No? It is such a dear
place; I simply adore it. I'm on my way home from there now. All my
men friends begged me to stay; they sent me so many flowers I had to
keep them in the bath-tub. Wasn't it darling of them? I just love
men. How long have you been in Clayton, Mr. Kilday?"
He tried to answer coherently, but his thoughts were in eager pursuit
of a red rose that flashed in and out among the dancers.
"And you really came over from England by yourself when you were just
a small boy? Weren't you clever! But I know the captain and all of
them made a great pet of you.
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