Wint faced her hotly. “If you don’t know without being told.... Can’t I even count on you, Joan?”
“I only asked.”
They were at her gate, and Wint lifted his hat abruptly. “Think what you like,” he told her sharply. “Good afternoon!”
He left her there; left her, and Joan looked after him with troubled sympathy in her eyes, and something more. There was a mist of tears in them when she went on toward the house.
While they were at supper that night, the telephone rang, and Wint’s father answered. After a moment he came back into the dining room. “Wint,” he said, “it’s Kite.”
“Kite?” Wint demanded, pushing back his chair. “What does he want?”
“He wants to see you—and me. He says he’ll be out here at eight. He wants us to be here.”
Wint’s face turned black with anger; then he threw up one hand. “All right,” he cried, “tell Kite we’ll be here.”