His amorous stupidity often exasperated her.
One night she yielded a narrow seat for him on the porch-swing, an openly demanded tête-à-tête, although the cushions on the stone steps and the settles within were warm with gossiping friends. "You're always so mournful when you're with me, Pelham."
"Oh, Mrs. Meade!" She tied his tongue when it came to repartee.
"Oh, Mr. Judson," she mimicked fretfully; then affirmed with decision, "you must meet Jane Lauderdale. She's about your tempo."
His eyes widened apprehensively; Dorothy's caprices were sometimes alarming. "Who's she?"
"The most serious little soul I know ... and the dearest. You'll like her, when you meet her."
"When?"
"Planning to desert me already, sir! I'll have you for a month yet; she's away."
"I'm satisfied; it's your lead;" he dropped with some gracefulness into the parlance of auction bridge.
The time came when she took the lead. The crowd were noisy at the piano one night, when Dorothy turned to him, in the tiny butler's pantry, laying her piled platter on a shelf behind his head. Lifting her chin, she said provokingly, "Don't you want to kiss me, Pelham?"