He was astounded by his own emotions. He felt himself quivering from head to feet. Reaching his own room by way of the back stairs, he paced excitedly up and down.
“I’d like to punch him!” he huskily muttered. “Jingoes! what is the matter with me? It made me furious to see him kiss her. I didn’t suppose anything could give me a feeling like that. What is the matter with me?”
He was somewhat dismayed over it. After a time he slowly murmured:
“By Jove! I am stuck on that girl! I didn’t know it before. That’s what ails me. If any one had told me I was hit so hard I’d felt like punching him. What am I going to do about it?”
There didn’t seem to be much of anything to do, but his brain was awhirl, scores of wild fancies and ideas flashing through it. For a long time he paced up and down, gradually growing calmer. Finally he left his room and descended by the front stairs, whistling.
In a careless manner he strolled into the parlor, stopping short and ceasing to whistle in apparent surprise as he beheld the four persons there.
“I beg your pardon!” he exclaimed, starting to retreat.
Inza rose.
“Mr. Fillmore,” she called.