"Is it?" Anne asked coldly, as Hilda disappeared for a moment into the pantry. "Well, I don't think it matters if it is now."
She got her things quietly and joined Roger again in the kitchen. Hilda leaned over the porch railing and waved as they disappeared into the covered tunnel that led to the street. On the sidewalk, Roger slipped his hand under Anne's arm, but Anne drew violently away.
"Why, honey, what's the matter? Surely you don't——"
"Surely I do care for common decency and politeness. Mamma got up a lovely dinner; every one was having a good time, until you got one of those excited streaks on. You might know they wouldn't agree with you. What sense was there in insisting? Besides, Dr. Stetson is an authority and you don't know anything about subnormal psychology or criminology."
Under the stream of Anne's anger, Roger's nerves quivered. Like fork lightning, fears cut across his mind, phrases of Anne's, moods, likes and dislikes, resemblances to the Mitchells. He had been longing to get away from the house, now he wanted to get away from the stream of Anne's invective. But, once started, Anne clung to her hurt.
"Please, Anne, quit it," Roger said as they reached the corner where they had to take the car. "I don't want to hear any more about it."
The car was just coming into sight. "No," Anne said hurriedly, "you never do, after you've had your say."
Side by side, hurt and angry, they sat through the long ride home. But, as they climbed the hill, quiet at this hour, the earth sweet with long rain, the stars clean and shining from a densely blue-black sky, Roger took Anne's hand.
"I'm sorry I hurt you, dear. I really never meant to."
"I don't see how you could have helped meaning it," Anne said coldly, and then, because she too was afraid of this their first real disagreement, pressed his fingers faintly.