There was a rush of feet down the slippery oil-cloth of the stairway, the door was pushed violently open, and Thea West bounced into the room.
When she saw Frank standing there alone in the room, so handsome and smiling, in his black evening-dress, with a rose in his button-hole, her blue eyes flashed with returning fire. She ran up and laid her slim, ringless white hand impetuously on his arm, demanding, breathlessly:
“Frank Hinton, have you gone crazy like the rest, or can you listen to what I’ve come to say?”
He saw at once that something had gone wrong, but he answered, lightly:
“Say on, Sweetheart.”
“It is only this,” said Thea. “I release you from your promise to take me to the dance. You can go with Maude Fitz.”
“Up—on—my—word!” ejaculated the astonished young man.
“I—I—was only joking, Frank, when I asked you to go with me,” pursued Thea. “You—you—didn’t think I was in earnest, did you, Frank?” eagerly.
“Of course I thought so. You were, too. You don’t think you can throw me over at this late hour, do you?” Frank laughed, and clasped his hand over the slim one on his arm with quite an air of possession.
Thea flushed slightly. She made a feint of drawing the hand away.