“Why, yes, of course! But that was before—Mrs. Pennock said what she did.”
“Of course. But—just what do you think these people are going to say to-morrow night, when you aren’t there?”
“Why, that I—I—” The color drained from her face and left it white. “They wouldn’t expect me to go after that—insult.”
“Then they’ll understand that you—care, won’t they?”
“Why, I—I—They—I can’t—” She turned sharply and walked to the window. For a long minute she stood, her back toward the two watching her. Then, with equal abruptness, she turned and came back. Her cheeks were very pink now, her eyes very bright. She carried her head with a proud little lift.
“I think, Mr. Smith, that I won’t go with you to-morrow, after all,” she said steadily. “I’ve decided to go—to that dance.”
The next moment the door shut crisply behind her.
CHAPTER VIII
A SANTA CLAUS HELD UP
It was about five months after the multi-millionaire, Mr. Stanley G. Fulton, had started for South America, that Edward D. Norton, Esq., received the following letter:—
Dear Ned:—I’m glad there’s only one more month to wait. I feel like Santa Claus with a box of toys, held up by a snowdrift, and I just can’t wait to see the children dance—when they get them.