Ginger took a step towards the door, then paused, rigid, with one leg in the air, as though some spell had been cast upon him. From the passage outside there had sounded a shrill yapping. Ginger looked at Sally. Then he looked—longingly—at the bed.
“Don't be such a coward,” said Sally, severely.
“Yes, but...”
“How much do you owe Mrs. Meecher?”
“Round about twelve dollars, I think it is.”
“I'll pay her.”
Ginger flushed awkwardly.
“No, I'm hanged if you will! I mean,” he stammered, “it's frightfully good of you and all that, and I can't tell you how grateful I am, but honestly, I couldn't...”
Sally did not press the point. She liked him the better for a rugged independence, which in the days of his impecuniousness her brother Fillmore had never dreamed of exhibiting.
“Very well,” she said. “Have it your own way. Proud. That's me all over, Mabel. Ginger!” She broke off sharply. “Pull yourself together. Where is your manly spirit? I'd be ashamed to be such a coward.”