“Thank you ever so much, Mr. Atwood,” she said evenly. “But Mr. Cummings is going to take me home!”
Cummings glanced at his wife, uncertainty plainly written on his face.
“Why, yes—yes—” he mumbled.
“I’m waiting, Bob!” said Grace.
He gathered up his raincoat and cap. Grace waited for him to open the door for her.
“Good-night, Mr. Atwood!” she flung over her shoulder, and the door closed.
“Well, there was that!” Cummings said after they were in the highway.
“I hope you’re satisfied with yourself,” said Grace angrily.
“Good Lord! Didn’t I do the best I could about it?”
“You couldn’t have done worse if you’d had a week to plan it! Instead of standing there like a fool when your wife came in, why didn’t you walk right up to her like a man and introduce me? You were scared to death; you thought of nothing but how you were going to square yourself with her. You did everything you could to give her the idea that you were ashamed of me.”