"What's the trouble?" Harold inquired solicitously. "The little gold
slippers?"
"No--I don't mind the slippers; but, you see, I'm not supposed to go off
the porch."
"How ridiculous! Of course you are going off the porch. I have only one
hour to stay, and I've something very important to tell you."
"But why can't we sit here?" she insisted, indicating an unoccupied
bench.
"Because those ubiquitous youngsters will be clamoring for you the moment
the music begins. Haven't you had enough noise for one night? Perhaps you
prefer to go inside and be pushed about and eat messy things with your
fingers?"
"Now you are horrid!" Eleanor pouted. "I only thought----"
"You mean you _didn't_ think!" corrected Harold, putting the tip of his
finger under her chin and tilting her face up to his. "You just repeated
what you'd been taught to say. Use your brains, Eleanor. What possible
harm can there be in our quietly sitting out under the light of the
stars, instead of on this crowded piazza with that distracting din going
on inside?"
"Of course there isn't really."
"Well, then, come on"; and he led the way across the strip of dewy lawn
and handed her into the car.
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