t was enough to annoy me, wasn't it?" she suggested.

"Evidently," I agreed.

"I am going to a ball next week," she explained, "a grown-up ball, and
I've got to wear a skirt. I wanted to see if I could manage a train."

"Well, to be candid, you can't," I assured her.

"It does seem difficult."

"Shall I show you?" I asked.

"What do you know about it?"

"Well, I see it done every night."

"Oh, yes; of course, you're on the stage. Yes, do."

We readjusted the torn skirt, accommodating it better to her figure by
the help of hairpins. I showed her how to hold the train, and, I humming
a tune, we commenced to waltz.

"I shouldn't count my steps," I suggested to her. "It takes your mind
away from the music."

"I don't waltz well," she admitted meekly. "I know I don't do anything
well--except play hockey."

"And try not to tread on your partner's feet. That's a very bad fault."

"I do try not to," she explained.

"It comes with practice," I assured her.

"I'll get Tom to give me half an hour every evening," she said. "He
dances beautifully."

"Who's Tom?"

"Oh, father."

"Why do you call your father Tom? It doesn't sound respectful."

"Oh, he likes it; and it suits him so much better than father. Besides,
he isn't like a real father. He does everything I want him to."

"Is that good for you?"

"No; it's very bad for me--everybody says so. When you come to think of
it, of course it isn't the way to bring up a girl. I tell him, but he
merely laughs--says it's the only way he knows. I do hope I turn out all
right. Am I doing it better now?"

"A little. Don't be too anxious about it. Don't look at your feet."

"But if I don't they go all wrong. It was you who trod on mine that
time."

"I know. I'm sorry. It's a little difficult not to."

"Am I holding my train all right?"

"Well, there's no need to grip it as if you were afraid it would run
away. It will follow all right. Hold it gracefully."

"I wish I wasn't a girl."

"Oh, you'll get used to it." We concluded our dance.

"What do I do--say 'Thank you'?"

"Yes, prettily."

"What does he do?"

"Oh, he takes you back to your chaperon, or suggests refreshment, or you
sit and talk."

"I hate talking. I never know what to say."

"Oh, that's his duty. He'll try and amuse you, then you must laugh. You
have a nice laugh."

"But I never know when to laugh. If I laugh when I want to it always
offends people. What do you do if somebody asks y