“Gita!”
Gita paused on the landing and clutched the banister. A show-down? Well—surely Polly must see there was no excuse for her to stay longer. “Yes?”
“Oh, nothing.” Polly swung on her heel. An explosion, and she would have to go. She had no intention of going.
Gita ran up to her room and locked herself in. She had never felt less tired. Nor did she want to think. She could always lose herself in a good novel, and she had a new one.
But half an hour later she slipped out of the house and tramped until it was time to dress for dinner.
CHAPTER XXIII
The dinner was almost gay. Each had her part to play and each was too clever to play it self-consciously. By common consent both Bylant and Pelham were ignored, and they talked of the past winter in New York, the summer distractions planned in Chelsea (in which Elsie promised Polly to take part if only for the sake of copy), and the new spring novels. The last subject afforded an opportunity to quarrel, which gave them a welcome release.
“I feel like a movie,” announced Polly, as they left the dining-room. “Come along, girls. We can all crowd into my car.”
“I can’t go, of course.” Gita bit her lip. “Must do the decent thing. What time do you suppose you’ll be back?”
“Round ten, probably.”