“That depends on how successful I am,” the girl laughed with a ring of optimism. In a moment, the door had closed behind her and she was gone.
Grace ran to the window excitedly, peeking through the curtain to watch her roommate and Lefty, who still waited with admirable patience.
Lefty reached for his hat and pulled it off of his head, fumbling nervously with it in his hands as he turned about, discovering Elinor standing in the shadow of the doorway, silent and somewhat indifferent.
“Oh—er—hello!” he stammered, attempting to assume a bold, devil-may-care front, though obviously ill at ease.
“Good evening, Mr. Phelps,” she replied in a distinctly piqued manner.
She came down the little pathway and joined him without speaking further. Together, they silently turned off to the road that led up the hill and passed the old Spanish Mission.
Certain that Lefty would remain silent as long as she set the example, Elinor gave him a hurried, sidelong glance, and with slight irony, remarked: “I suppose I should feel highly honored over your condescension in favoring me with your precious society this evening?”
She waited a moment for him to reply but he was too miserable even to look in the girl’s direction.
“Well,” she began again, this time in a lighter, indifferent fashion, though still secretly burning with jealousy, “did you have a good time last night?”
“I don’t blame you for not being tickled pink to see me,” he said, in a manner that distinctly betrayed his secret disgust with himself, and the mark of unhappiness his present task had left upon his heart and face. “I haven’t been at all considerate of your feelings of late, but if you were acquainted with the circumstances, you might not be so harsh in your opinion of me.”