“I suppose you’re just a miserable little thing that doesn’t want to be alone,” he concluded. “Come, I’ll take you home.”
The telephone bell on the table beside him rang sharply.
“I’m just going out,” he said to Billy, on the wire. “Betty is here with a fit of the blues. I’m going to take her home. Ride up with us, will you?”
“He’ll meet us down-stairs in ten minutes,” he said. “I’ll order a taxi.”
“I don’t want to see Billy,” Betty said rebelliously. She rose suddenly, pulling on her gloves, and took a step forward as if about to brush by him petulantly, but as she did so she staggered, put her hand to her eyes, and fell forward against his breast.
Dick picked up the limp little body, and made his way to the couch where he deposited it gently among the stiff red pillows there. Then he began to chafe her hands, to push back the tumbled hair from which the fur hat had been displaced, and finally fallen off, and to call out her name remorsefully.
“Betty, dear, dearest,” he cried, “I didn’t know, I didn’t dream,—I thought you were just trying it on. I’m so sorry, dear, I am so sorry.”
She moaned softly, and he bent over her again more closely. Then he gathered her up in his arms.
“Betty, dear, Betty,” he said again.