"I think I'll go home now, Split," she remarked carelessly, rising.
A sudden blight fell upon the belle of the afternoon. When Sissy went, go she must, too; this was the sole rule of conduct Francis Madigan had devised for the guidance of his most headstrong daughter.
"Oh, Sissy—not till after supper!" she pleaded piteously.
"I—I've got some studying to do for the examination Monday," explained the exemplary member of Mr. Garvan's class and society at large.
"Just wait till this one dance is over!" Coaxing was not Split Madigan's forte; she was accustomed to demand.
But it was just that one dance that Sissy, the pure and patriotic, could not countenance.
A quick flash of fury lighted Irene's eye. To be bossed publicly and before Mr. Will Morrow of San Francisco! In her heart she swore to be avenged; yet she dropped Mr. Morrow's hand and shook her head to all his pleadings, as she followed her ruthless tyrant across the floor to the little dressing-room.
But as the sisters emerged from the dressing-room door, Crosby Pemberton and his cousin Fred stopped them.
"You're not going home, Split?" begged Fred. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Oh, come and dance just this one with me!"
"Sissy's going," said Split, the lilting of the music stirring her pulses and lifting her feet, despite the unmusical rage she was in, "and I've got to go, too."