She was making for the pantry when I caught her, and I guess I looked pretty wild.
"I'll get it," I said. "I—that's one of the rules."
She put her hands in the pockets of her white sweater and smiled at me.
"Do you know," she declared, "the old ladies' knitting society isn't so far wrong about you! About your making rules—whatever you want, WHENEVER you want 'em."
She put her head on one side.
"Now," she went on, "suppose I break that rule and get my own glass? What happens to me? I don't think I'll be put out!"
I threw up my hands in despair, for I was about at the end of my string.
"Get it then!" I exclaimed, and sat down, waiting for the volcano to erupt. But she only laughed and sat down on a table, swinging her feet.
"When you know me better, Minnie," she said, "you'll know I don't spoil sport. I happen to know you have somebody in the pantry—moreover, I know it's a man. There are tracks on the little porch, my dear girl, not made by your galoshes. Also, my dearest girl, there's a gentleman's glove by your chair there!" I put my foot on it. "And just to show you what a good fellow I am—"
She got off the table, still smiling, and sauntered to the pantry door, watching me over her shoulder.