She drew her arm from his grasp and turned on him defiantly—
"Thanks— I don't care to be second fiddle!" she said spitefully.
"Good heavens, that is it!"
"Yes, that is it," she cried out and breaking from him she fled around the corner of the verandah and it seemed to him that he had caught the sound of a sob.
He entered the house, a prey to conflicting emotions, perplexed, angry, inclined to laugh, with alternate flashes of hope and as sudden relapses into despair. Just as he had made up his mind that she had left for the night, she reappeared without a trace of concern. But try as he might he did not succeed in getting another opportunity to speak to her. She avoided him with a settled cold antagonism. The next day it was the same. It seemed that everything she did was calculated to wound him and display her hostility. He had neither the strength nor the wisdom to respond with indifference, suffering openly. At ten o'clock that night as he was miserably preparing to enter the automobile that was to take him to the station, Patsie came hurriedly down the steps, something white in her hand.
"Please do something for me," she said breathlessly.
"What is it?"
"A letter— I want you to mail this letter—it's important."
He turned, taking the letter and putting it in his pocket without noticing it.
She held out her hand. Surprised, he took it, yet without relenting.