“I get along all right,” I answered, shortly, because it seemed to me that Viola had better get along without a fire herself—a scuttle of coal cost about thirty cents, and the kindling that started it, ten—instead of shivering for me, while she badgered her father for money that she confessed wouldn’t be easy for him to spare.
“Don’t be angry,” she called after me.
“I’m not angry,” I replied.
“Well, you acted it. . . . Funny holiday, isn’t it? Just sitting in our rooms. No parties or anything—”
“We could have one if you and Leslie wouldn’t hitch at it, and spoil everything,” I responded. “We could get a nice one up—”
“Well, I’m willing to fly the white flag that evening,” she stated with an indifference I felt that she put on.
But that made the party possible, for I saw how it might be managed and I hurried right on to Leslie’s room to find her lying down on her bed and staring up at a sky blue ceiling that had gilt stars painted on it.
“Look here,” I said, as I shut the door after myself, “I think we ought to have a party, a Christmas party, but we can’t unless you and Viola stop scrapping for the evening. She said she would; will you?”
Leslie sat up and drew her padded silk dressing gown around her, and then answered. “I am sure,” she said, “that I would act as I always do. One’s personal feelings dare not be aired; I assure you I invariably exercise restraint—”
“All right,” I answered and then I sat down on the edge of her bed, and we planned it.