Only Jane Anne was quiet. A
courtship even so remote and improbable as between the Wind and a
Haystack sent her thoughts inevitably in the dominant direction.
'It must be nice when one is two,' she whispered ambiguously to Mother
with a very anxious face, 'but I'm sure that if a woman can't cook,
love flies out of the window. It's a positive calamity, you know.'
But it was Cousin Henry's last night in Bourcelles, and the spirit of
pandemonium was abroad. Neither parent could say no to anything, and
mere conversation in corners was out of the question. The door was
opened into the corridor, and while Mother played her only waltz,
Jimbo and Monkey danced on the splintery boards as though it were a
parquet floor, and Rogers pirouetted somewhat solemnly with Jane Anne.
She enjoyed it immensely, yet rested her hand very gingerly upon his
shoulder. 'Please don't hold me _quite_ so tight,' she ventured. 'I've
never danced with a strange man before, you see'; and he no more
laughed at her than he had laughed at Mother's 'nunculus.' Even Jane
Anne, he knew, would settle down comfortably before long into the
great big pattern where a particular nook awaited--aye, needed--her
bizarre, odd brilliance. The most angular fragments would nest softly,
neatly in. A little filing, a little polishing, and all would fit
together.
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