He walked across
the room, and brought back with him a lad of thirteen or so,--well grown
for his age, and bright and manly-looking; but only a boy, and a little
shy and stiff at first, as boys have to be for a while. Leslie had seen
him before, in the afternoon, rolling the balls through a solitary game
of croquet; and afterward taking his tea by himself at the lower end of
the table. He had seemed to belong to nobody, and as yet hardly to have
got the "run" of the place.
"This is Master Thayne, Miss Leslie Goldthwaite, and I think he would
like to dance, if you please."
Master Thayne made a proper bow, and glanced up at the young girl with a
smile lurking behind the diffidence in his face. Leslie smiled outright,
and held out her hand.
It was not a brilliant debut, perhaps. The Haddens had been appropriated
by a couple of youths in frock coats and orthodox kids, with a suspicion
of mustaches; and one of the Thoresbys had a young captain of cavalry,
with gold bars on his shoulders. Elinor Hadden raised her pretty
eyebrows, and put as much of a mock-miserable look into her happy little
face as it could hold, when she found her friend, so paired, at her
right hand.
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