Miss Blake opened the ranch-house door at his knock. She greeted him with a sardonic smile. "I don't know whether you'll see your girl or not," she said. "Give her time to get over her tantrums."
Cosme turned a lightning look upon her. "Tantrums? Sheila?"
"Oh, my friend, she has a devil of her own, that little angel-face! Make yourself comfortable." Miss Blake pointed him to a chair. "I'll tell her you're here."
She went to the foot of the ladder, which rose from the middle of the living-room floor, and called heartily, an indulgent laugh in her voice, "You, Sheila! Better come down! Here's your beau."
There was no answer.
"Hear me, Sheila? Mis-ter Cos-me Hill-iard."
This time some brief and muffled answer was returned. Miss Blake smiled and went over to her elk-horn throne. There she sat and sewed—an incongruous occupation it looked.
Cosme was leaning forward, elbows on knees, his face a study of impatience, anger, and suspicion.
"What made her mad?" he asked bluntly.
"O-oh! She'll get over it. She'll be down. Sheila can't resist a young man. You'll see."