Mr. Bangs took a step toward her. Then he hesitated.
“I—I am very wet, I'm afraid,” he said. “Really, I am not sure that—”
“Rubbish! It's because you are wet—wet as a drowned rat—that I'm askin' you to come in. Come now—quick.”
Her tone was not unkind, but it was arbitrary.
Galusha made no further protest. She held the door open and he preceded her into a room, then into another, this last evidently a sitting room. He was to know it well later; just now he was conscious of little except that it was a room—and light—and warm—and dry.
“Sit down!” ordered his hostess.
Galusha found himself standing beside a couch, an old-fashioned sofa. It tempted him—oh, how it tempted him!—but he remembered the condition of his garments.
“I am very wet indeed,” he faltered. “I'm afraid I may spoil your—your couch.”
“Sit DOWN!”
Galusha sat. The room was doing a whirling dervish dance about him, but he still felt it his duty to explain.