“Yes, but not to him.”

“But what difference does it make?  You are too sensible not to understand, and I am too happy, anyway, to want to be rude to anybody.  And then you should never be jealous of Langdon Willits.”

“Well, then, not a round dance, please, Kate.”  He dare not oppose her further.  “I couldn’t stand a round dance.  I won’t have his arm touch you, my darling.”  And he bent his cheek close to hers.

She looked at him from under her shadowed lids as she had looked at St. George when she greeted him at the foot of the stairs; a gleam of coquetry, of allurement, of joy shining through her glances like delicate antennae searching to feel where her power lay.  Should she venture, as her Uncle George had suggested, to take the reins in her own hands and guide this restive, mettlesome thoroughbred, or should she surrender to him?  Then a certain mischievous coquetry possessed her.  With a light, bubbling laugh she drew her cheek away.

“Yes, any kind of a dance that he or anybody else wants that I can give him,” she burst out with a coquettish twist of her head, her eyes brimming with fun.

“But I’m on your card for every single dance,” he demanded, his eyes again flashing.  “Look at it—­I filled it up myself,” and he held up his own bit of paste-board so she could read the list.  “I tell you I won’t have his arm around you!”

“Well, then, he sha’n’t touch even the tips of my fingers, you dreadful Mr. Bluebeard.”  She had surrendered now.  He was never so compelling as when determined to have his own way.  Again her whole manner changed; she was once more the sweetheart:  “Don’t let us bother about cards, my darling, or dances, or anything.  Let us talk of how lovely it is to be together again.  Don’t you think so, Harry?” and she snuggled the closer to his arm, her soft cheek against his coat.

Before Harry could answer, young Willits, who had been edging his way up the stairs two steps at a time, avoiding the skirts of the girls, reaching over the knees of the men as he clung to the hand-rail, stood on the step below them.

“It’s my next dance, Miss Kate, isn’t it?” he asked eagerly, scanning her face—­wondering why she looked so happy.

“What is it to be, Mr. Willits?” she rejoined in perfunctory tones, glancing at her own blank card hanging to her wrist:  he was the last man in the world she wanted to see at this moment.

“The schottische, I think—­yes, the schottische,” he replied nervously, noticing her lack of warmth and not understanding the cause.

“Oh, I’m all out of breath—­if you don’t mind,” she continued evasively; “we’ll wait for the next one.”  She dared not invite him to sit down, knowing it would make Harry furious—­and then again she couldn’t stand one discordant note to-night—­she was too blissfully happy.

“But the next one is mine,” exclaimed Harry suddenly, examining his own dancing-card.  He had not shifted his position a hair’s breadth, nor did he intend to—­although he had been outwardly polite to the intruder.