change the subject from me to something else—leaves, dancing, anything—let's talk of Stella!"
This last subject, to which Sally referred a little maliciously, had just been thrust upon them by fat Billy Plum, who did most of his dancing pump-handle fashion with his arms, to Stella's evident disgust. Phil skilfully steered away from the impending collision while Stella gazed soulfully over Billy's fat shoulder at the fascinating cavalier.
"I won't change the subject, now I've got you here," persisted Sally's escort. "I'm going to tell you what I think of you."
"Why, Phil, I haven't intended to be mean to you. If I have, I do beg your pardon, indeed I do."
"That wasn't what I meant. Shall I really tell you what I think of you?"
"Oh, Phil, please don't be personal again or I'll stop dancing."
"Not while I've got my chance—Sally I love you."
The girl went white, stopped short with the music, writhed from his grasp, and hurried towards her hostess, calling in agitation:
"Oh, Mrs. Schauffler, I have a message for you."
Safe within the shelter of that kindly lady's wing, she stammered:
"Mrs. Schauffler, I hate to leave right now, but I have a headache and"
"Oh, I'm sorry, dear," and she looked anxiously at the pretty flushed face, reading there signs of other troubles besides the alleged indisposition. "Just run upstairs and lie
