Brock was growling defiantly in his throat; but Nancy’s answer was dutifully courteous.
“Not at all, Mr. Barth.”
“You are sure you wouldn’t rather I went away?” he persisted.
“It isn’t our parlor,” Nancy reminded him.
“Yours by right of possession.” As he spoke, Barth arose and carefully closed the door.
“Oh, no. And we could easily move out.”
Barth looked startled. It was hard enough to force himself to this cheerful arrogance of manner. It was harder still to have the manner miss fire in this fashion. It was thus, to his mind, that Brock was accustomed to take forcible possession of Nancy’s leisure hours. He had never heard her suggest the advisability of moving out, when Brock came in upon the scene. Vaguely conscious that something was amiss, Barth nevertheless persevered in his undertaking.
“Oh, but why should you move out?”
Nancy’s eyes lighted, half with amusement, half with impatience. What was the man driving at? Only yesterday she had been ready to accept him as a friend, as a man of tact and ingrained breeding. Now his former obtuseness seemed to have returned upon him, fourfold. And she had just been explaining to Brock that the man wasn’t half bad, after all. The question of what Brock must be thinking of her taste lent an added tinge of acidity to her reply.
“Merely in case you wished to move in,” she answered, with the lightest possible of laughs.