“Walter! It doesn't begin till about nine o'clock at the earliest.”
He paused, mystified. “What doesn't?”
“The dance.”
“What dance?”
“Why, Mildred Palmer's dance, of course.”
Walter laughed briefly. “What's that to me?”
“Why, you haven't forgotten it's TO-NIGHT, have you?” Mrs. Adams cried. “What a boy!”
“I told you a week ago I wasn't going to that ole dance,” he returned, frowning. “You heard me.”
“Walter!” she exclaimed. “Of COURSE you're going. I got your clothes all out this afternoon, and brushed them for you. They'll look very nice, and——”
“They won't look nice on ME,” he interrupted. “Got date down-town, I tell you.”