lothes, the shining floor which
stretched away from them, and the lilt of the band music which went to
her head like wine.

She shook her head. "But suppose I should fall down or something. This
floor looks so dreadfully slick and hard to stand up on. I wouldn't
mind a bit if I was awkward with Timothy. But...."

"I'm getting rather jealous of Timothy, I'm afraid," said Mr. Bennet.
"Miss Worthington, you couldn't be awkward if you tried. And you won't
fall down, I can promise to take care of that. Please give me this
great pleasure."

So Arethusa allowed herself to be thus charmingly persuaded.

But it must be confessed that their start was a bit awkward.

Arethusa was horribly self-conscious, and not at all sure, despite his
reassurance, that she was going to manage this new venture. After a few
moments, however, and his low-spoken command to let herself be guided,
her natural-born instinct to dance asserted itself, the
self-consciousness wore away, and she was one-stepping with the best of
any on that floor.

She was more certainly meant for a dancer. She was as light as a
feather, for all her height, and like a piece of thistledown she swayed
and circled about the room in perfect time to the music. She seemed to
feel instinctively the beat of the measures, and her flying feet obeyed
Mr. Bennet's guidance, as if he and she had danced together all of
their lives. Mr. Bennet himself was a truly wonderful exponent of the
art. He danced with a grace and ease that few men ever attain, and he
had an arm of sureness at his partner's back that took her safely
through that crowded room without a single bump or mishap. Had Arethusa
but known it, there was no one at the Party who could so well have
conducted her in her first real effort of this kind as Mr. Bennet.

It was over much too soon to please her. She could have gone on for
hours, just like that without a pause, and without once tiring.

"Why, you dance beautifully!" exclaimed Mr. Bennet, when the music
stopped. "I verily believe," very softly, "that you were fibbing when
you said you had danced so little!"

She looked up at him shyly, from under her long lashes, and blushed
just a bit. "That was you. I couldn't have danced with anyone else that
way. Timothy doesn't dance at all like that!"

Now this was the rankest ingratitude on Arethusa's part. For had it not
been for Timothy's surreptitious lessons, so kindly and willingly
given, she would never have expe