Every moment that she sat there beside Glenn she was realizing
more and more a yearning, passionate love for him. The unmistakable
manifestation of his joy at sight of her, the strong, almost rude
expression of his love, had called to some responsive, but hitherto unplumbed deeps of
her. If it had not been for these undeniable facts Carley would have been
panic-stricken. They reassured her, yet only made her state of mind more dissatisfied.
"Carley, do you still go in for dancing?" Glenn asked, presently, with his
thoughtful eyes turning to her.
"Of course. I like dancing, and it's about all the exercise I get," she
replied.
"Have the dances changed--again?"
"It's the music, perhaps, that changes the dancing. Jazz is becoming
popular. And about all the crowd dances now is an infinite variation of
fox-trot."
"No waltzing?"
"I don't believe I waltzed once this winter."
"Jazz? That's a sort of tinpanning, jiggly stuff, isn't it?"
"Glenn, it's the fever of the public pulse," replied Carley. "The graceful
waltz, like the stately minuet, flourished back in the days when people
rested rather than raced."
"More's the pity," said Glenn. Then after a moment, in which his gaze
returned to the fire, he inquired rather too casually, "Does Morrison still
chase after you?"
"Glenn, I'm neither old--nor married," she replied, laughing.
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