"Aren't you going to call?"
"Yeah. Only all of a sudden I feel funny about it. It's something I've got to do, only I don't know just how to do it, to make it come out right. It's awfully important." He looked up at her quite suddenly. "Do you like me, Kitty?"
She smiled with slow confusion. "Sure. I like lots of people."
"No," Fleetwood said, shaking his head. "That's not what I mean. Do you like me?"
Her gaze moved thoughtfully over his face. "You're funny, like I said," she murmured. "You act—well, kind of daffy. And your ears stick out. But...." She nodded with sudden decision. "Sure, I like you, Fleetwood. I like you fine."
Fleetwood grinned at her and realized by the strangeness of it that he was enjoying the sensation for the first time in his life. It was nice to grin at someone. And all at once he knew quite certainly what he had to do—and that it was the right thing to do. He spun around on the stool and started away. Then he stopped and turned back for a moment.
"I like you too, Kitty," he said and went into the phone booth.
"Well, for Pete's sake!" Kitty said and turned and looked at herself unbelievingly in the mirror behind the register. "Gee whiz!"
The Towers was apparently the sort of establishment which believes in bending every effort to prevent the telephone and the English language from going any further than they have to as a means of communication.
"And who shall I say is calling?" the supercilious voice of the Towers enquired.