"I guess you're getting tired of me," Peter said with a lump in his throat. "I guess you'll be making love to some other fellow one of these days."
"How dare you, Peter Brailsford!" she cried, taking the hairpins out of her mouth and turning to glare at him. "Suggesting that it might be any boy like that. What kind of a girl do you think I am?"
"I'm beginning to wonder," Peter admitted, shocked at his frankness.
"Don't be tiresome," said the pretty girl, giving a final pat to her hair. "Do you think anybody will notice if I don't wear a corset? I simply loathe corsets."
"I suppose I am tiresome," said Peter, gloomily.
"Oh, shush!" said Maxine. "I asked you a question."
"Wear whatever you please," Peter said.
"Why, Peter Brailsford," cried Maxine. "You're simply horrid. Now do be a good boy and help me with these hooks and eyes. I never can get them by myself."
2
When he could no longer stand the uncertainty, Peter Brailsford made his excuses to Milly Vincent,—she of the silly lisp and carrot-colored hair. He stalked from the room while the piano and violin played Strauss, ascended the dark stairs, and stood at the landing watching the clouds scudding across the face of the moon.