He hesitated.
“Surprised. Not angry. I haven't any possible right to be angry.”
“Will you come up and let me tell you about it, Clay?”
“I don't see how that will help any.”
“It will help me.”
He laughed at that; her new humility was so unlike her.
“Why, of course I'll come, Audrey,” he said, and as he rang off he was happier than he had been all day.
He was coming. Audrey moved around the little room, adjusting chairs, rearranging the flowers that had poured in on New-year's day, brushing the hearth. And as she worked she whistled. He would be getting into the car now. He would be so far on his way. He would be almost there. She ran into her bedroom and powdered her nose, with her lips puckered, still whistling, and her heart singing.
But he scolded her thoroughly at first.
“Why on earth did you do it,” he finished. “I still can't understand. I see you one day, gravity itself, a serious young woman—as you are to-day. And then I hear—it isn't like you, Audrey.”