After that Stella thought of course he would leave her and find some one else on whom to spend his superlative charms. It seemed incredible he shouldn’t. But instead he gave her his ceremonious arm again and escorted her to a romantic, shadowy nook, and sat down beside her. And it was then, for the first time, that Stella dared think he might be growing really interested in her.  
“He must be impressed!” she thought, thrilling more than ever. “Perhaps....” But she dared not, even in secret, tempt herself with all the delirious possibilities that crowded her brain just then.
 
King leaned a little toward her as she sat excitedly opening and shutting Elsa’s fan in her lap.
 
“You must feel warm, even though you don’t show it,” he said, smiling gallantly. “Let me fan you.” And when she had surrendered the fan, with a delighted, coquettish gesture, Mr. King began waving it slowly back and forth as he talked—not really stirring up a great deal of breeze, but beautifully establishing an atmosphere of coolness and languor.
 
[34]
 
“You can imagine you’re an Egyptian princess, and I’m one of those nice glossy black slaves, with a fan of papyrus or ostrich plumes—what is it they use?”
 
“Oh, dear,” replied Stella in a very worldly tone, “I’m afraid I don’t know, really!” She laughed a brief, happy laugh, and, after a little more appropriate repartee, she insisted: “I’m sure your arm must be getting tired. Suppose the Egyptian princess tells her slave he may stop fanning her until ...”
 
“Until after she’s danced again?”
 
Too late Stella realized she had gauchely precipitated a second invitation. But he seemed genuinely to welcome it (“That’s a divine waltz,” he observed irreproachably) and anyhow she couldn’t resist appearing on the floor again with him. As they danced she could hardly help noticing how people watched them. It was a delicious sensation. Fortunate for her he had come late—too late to fill his card. Normally, she guessed, it wouldn’t require much exertion on his part!
 
And still he didn’t leave her. Jesting merrily they went about in search of another shadowy nook, and when they had found one to their liking, sat down and resumed their talk. Of course in talk they didn’t go beneath those superficial currents which sociologists tell us are essential to mutual soundings-out within the herd. One talks of the weather or the high cost of everything, or if one is especially gifted, perhaps, one talks about Egyptian princesses—and all the while keeps his ears alert for that “low growl” which shall warn him he is in the wrong pew. But behold! there was no low growl. She heard none, he heard none. And yet it would seem as though these two: this girl in revolt against life and this the most fascinating man at the ball, must belong in very widely severed pews indeed.
 
“Where is your home, Mr. King?” she asked.
 
“Ah, how shall I answer?” he cried in mock consternation. “I’m afraid I’ve become a kind of permanent tramp—travelling a lot and—well, jogging about generally.”
 
[35]
 
“Abroad?” she asked, clasping her hands but making otherwise a valiant effort not to be overcome with awe.
 
“Pretty much all over the globe,” he admitted. “I’ve whistled up the sun sitting astride the pyramids; I’ve strummed a ukulele on the beach at Waikiki; I’ve dabbled a bit at Monte Carlo; I’ve sipped tea with little doll-like geisha girl............