“You? Why, you live here!”
“Well, I say ‘ain’t’ an’ ‘bully’; don’t I?” he retorted aggressively.
Margaret stepped back. Her face changed.
“Why—so—you—do!” she breathed. “And I never once thought of it.”
Bobby said nothing. He was standing on one foot, digging the toe of the other into the graveled driveway. For a time Margaret regarded him with troubled eyes; then she sighed:
“Well, anyhow, you don’t live here all the time, right in the house, same’s Patty and the rest would if they stayed. I—I don’t want to give you up, Bobby.”
Bobby flushed red under the tan. His eyes sparkled with pleasure—but his chin went up, and his hands executed the careless flourish that a boy of fourteen is apt to use when he wishes to hide the fact that his heart is touched.
