Kate stood near the far door, her radiant eyes fixed on Harry's approaching figure—the others she did not see. Willits reached her first:
“Miss Kate, isn't this my dance?” he burst out—“didn't you promise me?”
Kate started and for a moment her face flushed. If she had forgotten any promise she had made it certainly was not intentional. Then her mind acted. There must be no bad blood here—certainly not between Harry and Willits.
“No, not quite that, Mr. Willits,” she answered in her sweetest voice, a certain roguish coquetry in its tones. “I said I'd think it over, and you never came near me, and so Harry and I are—”
“But you DID promise me.” His voice could be heard all over the room—even the colonel, who was talking to a group of ladies, raised his head to listen, his companions thinking the commotion was due to the proper arranging of the dance.
Harry's eyes flashed; angry blood was mounting to his cheeks. He was amazed at Willits's outburst.
“You mean to contradict Miss Kate! Are you crazy, Willits?”
“No, I am entirely sane,” he retorted, an ugly ring in his voice.
Everybody had ceased talking now. Good-natured disputes over the young girls were not uncommon among the young men, but this one seemed to have an ominous sound. Colonel Rutter evidently thought so, for he had now risen from his seat and was crossing the room to where Harry and the group stood.
“Well, you neither act nor talk as if you were sane,” rejoined Harry in cold, incisive tones, inching his way nearer Kate, as if to be the better prepared to defend her.