"Oh, Ann!" I protested.
"I mean it," she said. Her face was strangely quiet. "The time has come—I've made up my mind at last."
From the door of the porch we heard Rollins's piping voice.
"Mr. Brenswick! Mr. Keets! Kennilworth! Allan John!—Come on! Miss Woltor's going to tell us a story!"
With vaguely responsive interest, the people came trooping in.
"A story?" brightened the Bride. "Oh, lovely—what is it about?"
"The story of my broken tooth," said Ann Woltor, very trenchantly, "told by request—Mr. Rollins's request," she added.
With a single comprehensive glance at my tortured face—at my Husband's—at Ann Woltor's, Claude Kennilworth turned sharply on his heel and started to leave the room.
"What, don't you want to hear the story?" piped Rollins.
"No, not by a damn sight," snapped Kennilworth.