they wore in those days. The figure gave her a bit of cold comfort. She toyed with the idea, turning it over and over in her mind as she went and sat silent with her mother. …
Mimi was wholly unaware of the emotions she and Carl had roused in Hilda. She knew of Hilda’s carefully shielded affection for him, but she had been so absorbed in her own reactions towards him she had neither noticed the expression on Hilda’s face during the brief episode nor had she caught the too elaborately casual way in which Hilda had urged her to dance with Carl. As she walked with him towards the pavilion all her old resentment against him surged through her. She detested his cool and aloof superiority, his calm assumption that she would gladly dance with him. Carl too was silent. His thoughts were of this girl who was Mimi, yet was not the Mimi he had only casually noticed before. Her flaming hair intrigued him, he had always loved that torch-like shade of gold and red. And she had a temper, too. That was fine—he liked folks to show some spirit.
They danced. Mimi loved to dance. She found herself forgetting her resentment, she had to keep reminding herself that she was angry. And Carl did dance well. No stepping awkwardly all over her feet as did most of the other boys. The big bass fiddle moaned. The violin chirped. The mandolin pertly strummed. Every few minutes the players joined in the song. From near at hand came the smells of meat being barbecued. With it mingled the fragrancy of pines and the shout of children. It was going to be hard to remain aloof.
The music stopped. Its spell broken, she found her resentment rising. But Carl only stood and grinned happily at her.
“That’s the best dance I ever had,” he announced.
“How many times and to how many different girls have you said that?” she countered.