He looked at her in dismay.
She interrupted his protest: “I’ve promised on my word of honor, and the box-office has sold the seats with that understanding.”
By her sofa, leaning over her, in a choked voice he murmured:
“You shan’t sing! You shan’t go out to-night!”
“Don’t be a goose, boy,” she said. “You’ve no right to order me like that. Stand back, please.” As he did so she whisked herself off the sofa with a sudden ardor and much grace. “Now,” she told him severely, “since you’ve begun to take that tone with me, I’m going to tell you that you mustn’t come here day after day as you have been doing. I guess you know it, don’t you?”
He stood his ground, but his bright face clouded. They had been so near each other and were now so removed.
“I don’t care a damn what people say,” he replied.
She interrupted him. She could be wonderfully dignified, small as she was, wrapped as she was in the woolen shawl. “Well,” she drawled with a sudden indolence and indifference in her voice, “I expect you’ll be surprised to hear that I do care. Sounds awfully funny, doesn’t it? But as you have been coming to the theater now night after night till everybody’s talking about it—”
“You don’t want my friendship,” he stammered.
And Letty Lane controlled her desire to laugh at his boyish subterfuge. “No, I don’t think I do.”