“Ah,” said Miss Kildare, thoughtfully, “I used to have good arms. Not quite as nice as Mabel’s, though. But latterly I haven’t been in places where evening dress was used. By the way, do you dance still?” “Keen on it as ever.” “What’s the waltz like now?” “Capering on hot bricks. Heaps more exercise to the furlong. People kill themselves at it much sooner.” “Reverse?” “In the north of England, where they all dance well, they’re like the Americans, and go each way alternately. In London and the south, where most of them waltz vilely, reversing is Aceldama.” “I suppose,” said Miss Kildare, with her eyes meditatively following a bronze-green humming-bird which was darting about a trumpet-vine on the piazza rail, “I suppose we shall have a hop here to-night. I shan’t reverse; and when my partners ask why, I shall tell them it’s the latest thing. One always likes to be as English as possible. Tell me something else that it’s toney to do.” “Read nasty novels, written by women you wouldn’t sit in the same room with, and then gush about them afterwards. That’s a very fashionable amusement with the up-to-date young women.” “Ugh, Pat, don’t be a pig. Besides, that wouldn’t suit my style a bit.” “But why want to change, Elsie? Don’t you appreciate yourself as you are at present? I’m sure other people would.” “That’s blarney.” “No,” said Onslow, judicially, “I think it’s ordinary fact.” “Is it really, though? I am glad. You know, I’ve thought lately my present stock-in-trade wouldn’t pass muster outside Florida. I can handle a boat in any weather, and ride anything that’s called a horse, and can dance decently in American fashion; but I can’t do anything else, except perhaps talk, if that counts.” Onslow laughed. “You are refreshing,” he said. “But why this inventory of stock?” “Because, Pat, I’m wondering how I shall get on in England. I’m going out there this fall. I’m two and twenty, you know, and I can do as I like, and living in the back blocks is beginning to pall.” “Going there by yourself?” “No, I’m not quite so independent as that. The Van Liews, the people I’m staying with here, spend the winter in London, and they’re going to take me with them.” “And afterwards, you come back again to the States?” Miss Kildare again watched the bronze-green humming-bird. “_Quien sabe?_” she said. “I may be induced to stay.” “What! You’re going to get married?” “Why not, if I have an invitation? Twenty-two’s getting on.” “Ah,” said Onslow, and set to rocking his chair. “Yes?” “I didn’t say anything.” “You said ‘Ah,’ Patrick, and that meant you thought a lot besides.” “Quite right, I did. It had never quite struck me till then that you were a completely grown-up young woman now, and might any day see a man to go into permanent partnership with. It’s a bit of a jar—I mean, it comes oddly to one at first to think of you as married, Elsie.”