In her voice was a vehement, motherly note; as of indignation against the ill-treatment accorded a loved, deficient child. Caleb felt it and it was as balm to his scratched sensibilities. But he laughed loudly as he made shift to reply:
“What a crazy notion! They treated me fine an’ I’ve had an out o’ sight time. Honest, I—”
“Caleb!”
“They made me quite one of ’em,” he bragged, the more earnestly for her unbelief. “I haven’t had such a good time in a couple o’ years. I—”
“Caleb Conover! Look me in the eyes.”
“It was rotten!” he admitted ruefully; his defense, as ever, breaking to pieces before the onslaught of her sweet imperiousness.
“I knew it!” she made answer; but there was no triumph in her words, “I knew how it would be. Oh, if only I could have been here to take care of you, you poor lamb among social lions! Listen to me! You’re not to stir from my side all evening. Understand? Now mind me! I am going to see that nobody is woozzey to you or lets you stand all frumped up alone in a corner any more.”
“An’ spoil your own good time?” snorted Caleb. “Not much! You chase on an’ get talked to an’ made much of, you little girl! An’ I’ll get all the fun I want, watchin’ the hit you make. That’s no lie.”
“I’d rather be with you, if you don’t mind,” she insisted, “We’re chums, aren’t we? Well, then, mind me and do as I say! We’re going to stay right together.”
For some unknown reason, Caleb felt happier than he had for days. He was ashamed of the feeling, but so strong was it that he made no further demur. People were starting for the music room. Piloted by Desirée, (who managed to make it perfectly clear to divers and sundry youths, en route, that she was quite content to remain with her present escort) Conover found himself at last, enthroned on a maddeningly uncomfortable camp-stool; with the girl at his left side.