"He'll love me," she thought, with a snap of the teeth. "He's got to!"
Jim Millette knocked—and pushed the door ajar, and diffidently intruded his head.
"Hello, Jim!" she cried. "Come in!"
The man would not enter. "I can't, Millie," he faltered. "I just got a minute."
"Oh, come on in!" said she, contemptuously. "Come in and tell me about it. What did you do it for, Jim? You got good and even, didn't you? Eh, Jim?" she taunted. "You got even!"
"It wasn't that, Millie," he protested.
"Oh, wasn't it?" she shrilled.
"No, it wasn't, Millie. I didn't have no grudge against you."
"Then what was it? Come in and tell me!" she laughed. "You dassn't, Jim! You're afraid! come in," she flashed, "and I'll make you lick my shoes! And when you're crawling on the floor, Jim, like a slimy dog, I'll kick you out. Hear me, you pup? What you take my child in there for?" she cried. "Hear me? Aw, you pup!" she snarled. "You're afraid to come in!"
"Don't go on, Millie," he warned her. "Don't you go on like that. Maybe I will come in. And if I do, my girl, it won't be me that'll be lickin' shoes. It might be you!"