Her lips quivering ominously, Marjorie watched Jerry’s plump figure down the street. Slow tears began to roll down her rosy cheeks. Groping blindly for her handkerchief, she buried her face in it with a grieved little sob.
“Don’t cry, dear,” soothed Constance, slipping a gentle arm about the sorrowful lieutenant. “By to-morrow Jerry will be all over being mad. She is too fond of you to stay cross. Inside of half an hour she will probably be telephoning you to say she is sorry. Let’s go into the house and wait for her message. She’ll be ready to make up by the time she reaches home.”
“It’s—as—much—my—fault as hers,” quavered Marjorie. “I was cross, too. If she doesn’t ’phone me by six o’clock, I’ll call her up. It is babyish in me to cry, but I couldn’t help it. Jerry and I have always been such dear friends. I’m not going to cry any more, though. Captain will wonder what the trouble is. I’m going to tell her everything, but not until to-night after dinner. You’d better stay and help me, Connie. Perhaps Jerry will telephone before then.”
“All right, I will, thank you. I’ll telephone Aunt Susan and let her know where I am.”
On entering the house Delia met them with the information that Mrs. Dean had gone shopping but would be home by half-past six o’clock. When Constance had telephoned, they established themselves in the living room, keeping up a soft murmur of conversation. Two pairs of ears were sharply trained on the hall, however, to catch the jingling ring of the telephone.
When six o’clock rolled around without the longed-for message from Jerry, Marjorie could no longer endure the suspense. Springing from her chair, she sought the ‘phone and gave the operator the Macys’ number. “Hello,” she called in the transmitter.
“Hello,” sounded a familiar voice. It was Jerry herself who answered.
“Is that you, Jerry? This is Mar——”
The forbidding click of the receiver cut the last word in two. Constance had not proved a successful prophet. Jerry Macy was still “cross.”