“I’m not frightened,” she said, with a catch in her voice.
“Of course you ain’t,” he agreed reassuringly. “You just sit quiet—”
“But I—I—I’m mad, clean through.”
“You gotta right. You gotta perfect right. Now, if this was New York, I’d spread that gold-laced guy’s face—”
“I’m not angry at him. Not particularly, I mean.”
“No?” queried her friend in need. “What got your goat, then?”
Miss Brewster shot a quick and scornful glance over her shoulder.
“Oh, him!” interpreted the athlete. “Well, he made his get-away like a man with some reason for being elsewhere.”
“Reason enough. He was afraid.”
“Maybe. Being afraid’s a queer thing,” remarked her escort academically. “Now, me, I’m afraid of a fuzzy caterpillar. But I ain’t exactly timid about other things.”