“I say—Merle—was I a beast yesterday?”
“Dear me, no; you were delightful.” It might have been the grandmother speaking in those tones of frozen hauteur. Then suddenly: “You’re in love with each other, aren’t you?”
Peter tossed off her hat and coat. “Don’t be—crude.”
“Crude!” the other blazed forth; “perhaps you think you weren’t crude—last night.”
“Last night was a mood; and I apologize. I’m quite normal again.”
“Naturally. He caught the train.”
“Merle,” Peter’s eyes were deep and troubled; “you mustn’t say that sort of thing. You. You said it as if you meant it; as if——”
“As if what?”
“As if you were jealous,” Peter blurted out.
“I am. Oh—not of Stuart; he doesn’t count in this, except that I dislike him for daring to interfere, after all we’ve been to each other.”