They collided oftenest with Arthur and his Emma, for the lucky youth who held that drifting nymph seemed most unhappy in his pride. The girl was talking amiably, but the man was grim and furtive and as careless of his steering as a tipsy chauffeur. Orson forgot himself enough to comment to Tudie, "Your brother doesn't seem to be enjoying himself." "Poor boy, he's heartbroken." "Why?" "He's so disappointed with Em." "I can't see anything wrong with her." "Evidently not; but have you heard her?" In a sudden access of rage Orson stopped short in the middle of the swirl, and, ignoring the battery of other dancers, demanded, "In Heaven's name, what's the matter with the girl?" "Nothing, I should judge from the look on your face after your close inspection." "Oh, for pity's sake, don't begin on me; but tell me--" "Talk to her and find out," said Tudie, with a twang that resounded as the music came to a stop. "Oh, Em--Miss Terriberry, this is Mr. Carver; he's dying to meet you." She whirled around so quickly that he almost fell into the girl's arms. She received him with a smile of self-possession: "Chahmed, Mr. Cahveh." Orson's Eastern ears, expecting some horror of speech, felt delight instead. She did not say "charrmed" like an alarm-clock breaking out. She did not trundle his name up like a wheelbarrow. She softened the "a" and ignored the "r." Tudie rolled the "r" on his ear-drums as with drum-sticks, and by contrast the sound came to him as: "Misterr Carrverr comes from Harrvarrd. He calls it Havvad." "Oh," said Em, with further illumination, "I woah the Hahvahd colohs the lahst time I went to a game." Orson wanted to say something about her lips being the perfect Havvad crimson, but he did not quite dare--yet. And being of New England, he would always be parsimonious with flatteries. Tudie hooked her brother's arm and said with an angelic spitefulness, "We'll leave you two together," and swished away. Orson immediately asked for the next dance and Em granted it. While they were waiting for the rheumatic piano to resume they promenaded. Orson noted that everybody they passed regarded them with a sly and cynical amusement. It froze all the language on his lips, and the girl was still breathing so fast from the dance that she apologized. Orson wanted to tell her how glorious she looked with her cheeks kindled, her lips parted, and her young bosom panting. But he suppressed the feverish impulse. And he wondered more and more what ridiculous quality the Carthaginians could have found in her who had returned in such splendor. The piano exploded now with a brazen impudence of clamor. Orson opened his arms to her, but she shook her head: "Oh, I cahn't dahnce again just yet. You'd bettah find anothah pahtnah."