"
"I hate dancing in August," she said flatly.
"I'm sorry. Besides, one must do something down here."
"One can, if one wants to. I don't. There's no sense in coming to this
kind of a place, just to put on one's best clothes and dance all night in
a stuffy room."
"You might take Lear's method," he suggested;
"'And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon.'"
For one instant, Phebe relaxed her severity.
"Do you like Lear, too?" she asked.
"Of course. What sensible person doesn't?" He stretched himself out at
full length, resting his head on his hand, and, for the moment, Phebe, as
she looked at him, felt that he was almost handsome enough to atone for
his lack of energy. "But you haven't accepted my invitation," he added
persuasively.
"I know it."
"Please do."
"What for? I told you I don't like hops in August."
"But I can't hop alone."
"Ask somebody else, then."
"Don't want to. Well, I'll consider it an engagement."
"Why don't you play golf?" Phebe demanded.
"Too energetic for me. I want something more restful."
His languid tone annoyed Phebe, and she dropped her indifferent manner.
"Mr. Barrett, did it ever occur to you that you were lazy?"
He flushed.
"No; it hadn't occurred to me in that light before. Am I?"
"Very."
He sat up.
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