"What do you mean?"
"I mean—I mean," he answered, stammering a little with wrath, "of course you may do such things—Grace Christie may—but my future wife may not."
For a moment I had a blinded angry paralysis descend upon me. I had a great desire to do something to relieve the situation, but I didn't know what to do—rather as you feel sometimes at the breakfast table when your morning grapefruit hits you squarely in the eye.
"Suppose you try to calm yourself a little and tell me just what the trouble is," I said, struggling after calmness for my own individual use.
He took off his hat and mopped his brow.
"Your mother suspected last night that something had gone wrong with you at that dance," he began explaining, the flash of the street light at the corner showing that he had gone quite pale.
"Well?"
"She said that you came in looking wild-eyed and desperate."
"I am not willing to admit that," I said with dignity.
"And, then she knew you didn't sleep!" he kept on. "All day she has been feeling that something was amiss with you."