"I think we ought to go. Or else," he added in an afterthought with the expression of a martyr, "or else I ought to go and take your regrets."
"Well, why don't you do that?" Mrs. Porter exclaimed brightly.
"All right, I will!" he almost shouted. "I'll do it. I think it's the decent thing to do. I'll get ready right away."
"Right now? Why, it's entirely too early. It's only half-past seven. You can stay here until ten, then go for a few minutes and be back by eleven."
"No, no, that would not be nice. That's not the way to treat people who have gone to the expense of giving a dance. Everybody should go early and stay late."
"Oh, absurd."
"No, it's decent. I think I had better go early anyway, and then I can get back earlier. I don't want to stay up too late."
"Well, if you insist, go on."
Tom went upstairs and began dressing hurriedly. He knew he would not feel safe until he was a square away from the house. If this was to be the last of these bully, bachelor, poker parties he did not want to miss it. His wife was the sweetest little woman on earth, and he delighted in being with her, and humoring her, but then a woman's view of life and things is often so different that there is a joyous relaxation in a man party. If he could dress and get away before his wife changed her mind all would be well. He put his clothes on feverishly, but before he had half finished he heard her running up the stairs, and his heart sank. She came with the step that indicated something important on her mind. He knew as well how she looked as if he could see her coming. She was humped over slightly, her head was down, both hands grasping her skirts in front, and her feet fairly glimmering at the speed she was coming.
She burst into the room. "Tom, I think I will go with you. It is mean of me to make you go alone."