But Whitby’s purpose would not wait; as soon as the chance offered he begged free, and arose to the occasion with a daring that surprised himself. "I am going to hide up with Miss McAllister for quite a time, Mrs. Blake. If any one comes bothering, just put him off, will you? That is, if Miss McAllister doesn’t mind."
"Mind? Of course she doesn’t mind. Run along, Margie, and for Heaven’s sake, don’t sit in a draft—though I don’t believe you can find one in this house," and the fan was brought into more vigorous action at the reminding thought.
"Well, I don’t know, Mr. Booth," remonstrated Margaret as they moved away. "They will begin to dance very soon and I promised Wallie Hartman the opening. You came in together, didn’t you?"
"Oh, Wallie! Yes, he was pretty keen on getting here but I rather fancy he’s forgotten about that dance, you know."
"What makes you say that? What mischief are you two brewing?"
"Ah—it’s Wallie’s secret, you know,—that is, his part of it is—I say, here ’s the very spot."
They had made the turn behind the stairs, where a punch bowl stood; the space immediately behind the stairs being too low in which to stand comfortably upright, a mass of foliage was banked in a half circle, outside of which the stand and punch bowl were placed; inside, a thoughtful hostess had arranged a _tête-à-tête_, quite unnoticeable from without. Whitby’s attention had been drawn to it by the couple who had emerged upon their approach, the girl radiant and the man walking on air, of which details Whitby was entirely oblivious. Margaret was more observing and she looked after Wallie with a dawning look of understanding and then at Whitby with a quick glance of apprehension. There was no time to protest, even if she would, as Whitby had led her behind the leafy screen before she fully realized the import of his action.
Like many slow starters, Whitby, when once in movement, set a rapid pace. He came to the point now with promptitude:
"Miss McAllister, I arrived late because I called on your father before coming here, to ask his permission to address you. I must say he rather dashed my hopes, you know. He does n’t think I ’m such a bad sort—he does n’t object in the least—but he seemed to fancy his daughter Margaret would. I—I hope he is mistaken."