“Why,” faltered Betty, “why—of course. Aren’t we silly? Won’t you come in?”
They had reached the house and Betty placed one small foot in its patent leather Oxford on the lowest step. Phillip glanced from the Oxford to the oriel window doubtfully.
“Wouldn’t your mother think I was—cheeky?” he asked.
“She’d think you were cheekier if you kept me on the steps,” answered Betty.
“Well, then let’s walk,” he suggested boldly.
“I think I ought to go in,” answered Betty. And so she took the Oxford from the lowest step and moved off up the sidewalk with him.
“Do you think I’m awfully cheeky?” asked Phillip.
“I? Why?”
“Your brother said you did.”