"What do you mean?"
Randall's eyes lowered. He fidgeted uneasily in his chair. Then he lifted his eyes until they met hers.
"Well, she wouldn't give me a chance last night."
"'A chance?' What do you mean?" Clancy sat bolt upright on the sofa.
"She was afraid that you might listen to me." The explanation didn't quite explain.
"I'm listening to you now," she said.
"Yes; yes"—and Randall smiled rather wanly—"Mrs. Carey is a mind-reader, I think. She knew that I intended—she knew what I intended to say," he corrected his phrasing, "and she didn't want me to say it."
Into Clancy's eyes came glints of merriment.
"Oh, yes; she was afraid that you would propose to me."
Somehow or other, without Clancy putting it into words, her manner indicated an amused scorn. Randall was in love—in love in that terrific and overwhelmingly passionate fashion that only love at first sight can attain. But he was a grown man, who had proved, by his business success, his right to walk among men. He was good-natured, would always be good-natured. But he had self-respect. And now he hit back.