“Blondy's all right,” he stated beneficently, “but you just forget about him tonight. You're going to that dance, and you're going with me. If there's any explanations to be made, you leave 'em to me. I'll handle Blondy.”
“You handle Blondy!” she whispered. Her voice came back; it rang: “You couldn't if he had one hand tied behind him.” She measured him for another blow. “I'm going to that dance and I'm going with Mr. Hansen.”
She knew that he would have died for her, and he knew that she would have died for him; accordingly they abandoned themselves to sullen fury.
“You're out of date, Vic,” she ran on. “Men can't drag women around nowadays, and you can't drag me. Not—one—inch.” She put a vicious little interval between each of the last three words.
“I'll be calling for you at seven o'clock.”
“I won't be there.”
“Then I'll call on Blondy.”
“You don't dare to. Don't you try to bluff me. I'm not that kind.”
“Betty, d'you mean that? D'you think that I'm yaller?”
“I don't care what you are.”