Now
that she looked at him again, Kedzie thought what an extraordinarily
handsome, gloriously wicked-looking, swell-looking man he was. Yet
the girl who had danced called him Peterkin--which didn't sound
very swell to Kedzie.
He had very little to say to Zada, who did most of the talking.
He smiled at her now and then behind his cigar and gave her a queer
look that Kedzie only vaguely understood. She thought little of him,
though, because the next dance began, and she had a whole riot
of costumes to study.
There was a constant movement of new-comers past Kedzie's nook.
Sometimes people halted to look the crowd over before they went
up the steps, and asked two handsome gentlemen in full-dress suits
if they could have a table. The gentlemen--managers, probably, who
got up the party--usually said no. Sometimes they looked at papers
in their hands and marked off something, and then the people got
a table.
By and by two men and an elderly woman dressed like a very youngerly
woman paused near Kedzie. Both of the men were tall, but the one
called Jim was so tall he could see over the rail, or over the moon,
for all Kedzie knew.
The elderly lady said, "Come along, boys; we're missing a love of
a trot."
The less tall of the men said: "Now, mother, restrain yourself.
Remember I've had a hard day and I'm only a young feller. How
about you, Jim?"
"I'll eat something, but I'm not dancing, if you'll pardon me,
Mrs. Duane," said Jim.
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