Mr. Ritchie flung the book down on the table and walked out.
VIII
The very next evening, when he should have been on his way to Chicago, he was ringing the door bell of Madeline’s flat. His presence brought ineffable consolation to the aunt, and was not displeasing to the girl herself.
“My!” she said loftily. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d come back!”
“Well, I did,” said he. “Aren’t you going back to Compson’s any more?”
“That’s my business!” she answered, but she let him in, and he did not appear rebuffed.
“Well, I guess they miss you there,” he observed.
“Let ’em!” she retorted with spirit. They were both too polite, too formal, to take any notice of the tears rolling down her cheeks. “I went out with that Mr. Bradley, and we got lost in his car. We never got back here until near noon. There’s no use telling those girls that. They’re awful spiteful, and they’d never believe me.”
“Well, I do,” said Ritchie.
“I should think you ought to!” said Madeline, with a sternness that concealed a very warm gratitude.