He looked at her from under his heavy eyelids; then blew two smoke wreaths slowly. "You're a queer creature."
She turned on him hotly. "Queer? Because I won't go out to supper with you? I'd be queer if I did! I'm entirely satisfied with myself, Lloyd; I consider that I have a perfect right to be happy in my own way. You know I don't care a copper for what you call 'morality'! it's nothing but cowardly conventionality. But I won't go out to supper with you."
"Please don't let us have a tirade," he said "I thought it would be more convenient for you. That's always the way with your sex, Helena, you do a thing to help them out, and they burst into tears."
"I haven't burst into tears," she said sullenly, "but I won't go."
"Come, now! don't be a goose. I wouldn't make a practice of accepting their invitations; but for once, what does it matter?"
"Can't you understand?" she said passionately; "they are kind to me!"
She turned quickly and ran into the garden, leaving him to call after her: "Well, you've got to go to-night, because I've accepted."
"I won't go to-night!" she flung back, her voice breaking.
Lloyd Pryor shook his head. "And she wonders I don't come oftener," he said to himself.
So the sleepy Sunday morning passed. Mr. Pryor roamed about the garden, looking furtively over his shoulder now and then—but Helena had disappeared. "Sulking in her room, I suppose," he thought.