“I do!” breathed Fanchon, softly.
She seemed to him a fairy creature from some rosier
world than this. So humble is the human heart,
it glorifies and makes glamorous almost any poor thing
that says to it: “I like you!”
Penrod was enslaved. He swallowed, coughed, scratched
the back of his neck, and said, disjointedly:
“Well—I don’t care if you want
to. I just as soon.”
“We’ll dance together,” said Fanchon,
“at your party.”
“I guess so. I just as soon.”
“Don’t you want to, Penrod?”
“Well, I’m willing to.”
“No. Say you want to!”
“Well——”
He used his toe as a gimlet, boring into the ground,
his wide open eyes staring with intense vacancy at
a button on his sleeve.
His mother appeared upon the porch in departure, calling
farewells over her shoulder to Mrs. Gelbraith, who
stood in the doorway.
“Say it!” whispered Fanchon.
“Well, I just as soon.”
She seemed satisfied.
A dancing floor had been laid upon a platform in the
yard, when Mrs. Schofield and her son arrived at their
own abode; and a white and scarlet striped canopy
was in process of erection overhead, to shelter the
dancers from the sun. Workmen were busy everywhere
under the direction of Margaret, and the smitten heart
of Penrod began to beat rapidly. All this was
for him; he was Twelve!
After lunch, he underwent an elaborate toilette and
murmured not. For the first time in his life
he knew the wish to be sand-papered, waxed, and polished
to the highest possible degree. And when the operation
was over, he stood before the mirror in new bloom,
feeling encouraged to hope that his resemblance to
his father was not so strong as Aunt Sarah seemed
to think.
The white gloves upon his hands had a pleasant smell,
he found; and, as he came down the stairs, he had
great content in the twinkling of his new dancing
slippers. He stepped twice on each step, the better
to enjoy their effect and at the same time he deeply
inhaled the odour of the gloves. In spite of
everything, Penrod had his social capacities.
Already it is to be perceived that there were in him
the makings of a cotillon leader.
Then came from the yard a sound of tuning instruments,
squeak of fiddle, croon of ’cello, a falling
triangle ringing and tinkling to the floor; and he
turned pale.
Chosen guests began to arrive, while Penrod, suffering
from stage-fright and perspiration, stood beside his
mother, in the “drawing-room,” to receive
them. He greeted unfamiliar acquaintances and
intimate fellow-criminals with the same frigidity,
murmuring: “’M glad to see y’,”
to all alike, largely increasing the embarrassment
which always prevails at the beginning of children’s
festivities. His unnatural pomp and circumstance
