Antrim helped her across the bank-full irrigation ditch at the curb and answered not a word.
“I suppose you are just aching to take it out on somebody,” she went on. “If that is the case, you may begin on me. I’m young and strong, and not too thin-skinned.”
Still Antrim held his peace, fearing to open his mouth lest a worse thing should come of it.
“Why don’t you say something? You needn’t go into your shell like a disappointed turtle just because I wouldn’t let you spoil my negative of the opera before I could get it developed.”
Still no reply.
“What is the matter with you, Harry, dear? Have you lost your tongue?”
“No; I’ve been waiting till you saw fit to come down out of the clouds; that’s all.”
“Well, I have arrived. And I am ready to forgive you for being so sulky. My, oh!”
They had reached the gate, and Antrim tried to open it. The latch stuck, and straightway the gate flew across the sidewalk bereft of its hinges. Isabel laughed joyously, and the small explosion served to clear the moral atmosphere, as other wooden profanities are said to.
“Good as a play, isn’t it?” growled the young man, and he sought to re-establish the wrecked gate.