"Have I? I don't remember saying anything discourteous to you."
"You didn't need to," retorted Linda. She didn't wish to snap, she wished to freeze, but old wounds ached. "Your actions, your looks, were quite enough."
"My looks?" repeated King mildly. "I'm sure you exaggerate. It must have been these glasses: the wrong shape or something." He took them off and regarded them critically.
"I hate your jokes!" retorted the girl, hotly.
"Hate what you like so long as it isn't me!"
"It is you!" The words came with emphasis.
"Then you do like me." King nodded. "It's an admission."
"You disgust me with your silliness," she returned, turning away. "I wonder what has become of Fred Whitcomb." She rose and swept to the bay window.
King followed her.
"Fred's a good fellow. I always liked Whitcomb," he said.