“A rope!” he demanded, without paying any attention to us and diving into corners of the room. “Good heavens, isn’t there a rope in this confounded house!”
He turned and rushed out, without any explanation, and left us staring at the door.
“Bother the rope!” I found myself forced to look into two earnest eyes. “Kit, were you VERY angry when I kissed you that night on the roof?”
“Very,” I maintained stoutly.
“Then prepare yourself for another attack of rage!” he said. And Betty opened the door.
She had on a fetching pale blue dressing gown, and one braid of her yellow hair was pulled carelessly over her shoulder. When she saw me on my knees beside the bed (oh, yes, I forgot to say that, quite unconsciously, I had slid into that position) she stopped short, just inside the door, and put her hand to her throat. She stood for quite a perceptible time looking at us, and I tried to rise. But Tom shamelessly put his arm around my shoulders and held me beside him. Then Betty took a step back and steadied herself by the door frame. She had really cared, I knew then, but I was too excited to be sorry for her.
“I—I beg your pardon for coming in,” she said nervously. “But—they want you downstairs, Kit. At least, I thought you would want to go, but—perhaps—”
Just then from the lower part of the house came a pandemonium of noises; women screaming, men shouting, and the sound of hatchet strokes and splintering wood. I seized Betty by the arm, and together we rushed down the stairs.