think, for mother made us keep at it. If only we
didn't have to have partners and think of things to say to them!" She
held out her hand, "Thank you ever so much for asking me, but I'd truly
rather not." He wrung her hand, muttered something about "later, then,"
and fled, still red about the ears. Cora returned to her mother.

"Well, my dear, you seemed to be having a tremendous flirtation with
that youth," laughed Mrs. Baldwin. "Such a hand-clasp at parting! Don't
dance too hard, child." She turned to the half-dozen parents supporting
her. "These crazy girls of mine will dance themselves to death if I
don't keep an eye on them," she explained. "Amelie says, 'Mother, how
can I help splitting my dances, when they beg me to?' I am always
relieved when the dance is over and they are safe in bed--then I know
they aren't killing themselves. The men have no mercy--they never let
them rest an instant."

"I don't see Miss Enid about," suggested Mr. Merritt. "I suppose she and
her Harry--!"

"Oh, I suppose so!" Mrs. Baldwin shook her head resignedly. "The bad
child insists on being married in the spring, but I simply can not face
the idea. What can I do to prevent it, Mrs. Merritt?"

"I am afraid you can't," smiled Mrs. Merritt. "We mothers all have to
face that."

"Ah, but not so soon! It is dreadful to have one's girls taken away. I
watch the others like a hawk; the instant a man looks too
serious--pouf!--I whisk him away!"

Cora stood looking down, with set lips; a flush had risen in her usually
pale cheeks. Dora, setting free an impatient partner, joined her and
they drew aside.

"It does make me so ashamed!" said Cora, impulsively.

"I think mother really makes herself believe it," said Dora, with
instant understanding.

They watched Amelie flutter up to their mother to have a bow retied, and
stand radiant under the raillery, though she made a decent pretense of
pouting. Her partner vanished, and Mrs. Baldwin insisted on her resting
"for one minute," which ended when another partner appeared.

"Amelie is asked much more than we are, always," Cora suggested. Dora
nodded at the implication.

"I know. I wonder why it never seems quite real. Perhaps because the
devoted ones are such silly little men."

"Or seem to us so," Cora amended conscientiously. "Don't you wish we
might creep up-stairs? Oh, me, here comes a man, just hating it! Which
do you suppose he will--Oh, thank you, with pleasure, Mr. Dorr!" Cora
was