She knew then, suddenly, that he lied; that he had been lying to her all evening; that Charles was right. She rose abruptly and almost ran across the room, forgetting her dignity. Pushing aside the curtains she saw Charles, with his hat and coat on, just going out the door.
“Charlie,” she cried—“Charlie!”
He turned quickly and looked at her in a perplexed way. There was not a trace of humility on his features, until he saw her distressed condition, and realized that the three or four strangers standing around were laughing at her. He was then overcome with compassion and led her into a small hallway where they could talk.
“Is anything the matter?” he asked.
“Just you,” she replied. “You probably think I have had too much, but I am perfectly sober. Oh, Charlie, you—where were you going?”
“I wasn’t going home,” he said, looking toward the ground.
“Charlie, you can’t take care of yourself. You don’t know how.” She was much disturbed over the thought, although it was a new one to him. He had just been thinking the same thing about her.
She took hold of the lapels of his coat. “Charlie, don’t go back with that awful woman?”
He looked at her defiantly. “Why not?” he asked. But the expression of her eyes was so pitiful and so serious that his heart relented.
“All right,” he said, “provided that you won’t let Conrad take you home.”