“Well, old girl”––Rivers had slammed the door after him––“sitting up for me, eh? Sorry; but when I didn’t find you here, I had to get over and see Maclin. Devilish important, big pull I’ve made this time. We’ll have a spree––go to the city, if you like––have a real bat.”
Mary-Clare did not have time to move or speak; Larry was crushing her against him and kissing her face––not as a man kisses a woman he loves, but as he might kiss any woman. The silence and rigidity of Mary-Clare presently made themselves felt. Larry pushed her away almost angrily.
“Mad, eh?” he asked with a suggestion of triumph in his voice. “Acting up because I ran off to Maclin? Well, I had to see him. I tried to get home sooner, but you know how Maclin is when he gets talking.”
How long Larry would have kept on it would have been hard to tell, but he suddenly looked full at Mary-Clare and––stopped!
The expression on the face confronting his was puzzling: it looked amused, not angry. Now there is one thing a man of Larry’s type cannot bear with equanimity and that is to have his high moments dashed. He saw that he was not impressing Mary-Clare; he saw that he was mistaking her attitude of mind concerning his treatment of her––in short, she did not care!
“What are you laughing at?” he asked.
“I’m not laughing, Larry.”
“What are you smiling at?”
“My smile is my own, Larry; when I laugh it’s different.”
“Trying to be smart, eh? I should think when your husband’s been away months and has just got back, you’d meet him with something besides a grin.”