“You cad,” I breathed.
“Now don’t get cross, its no use; besides all the girls do it,” he coaxed and cajoled—was a picture of weakness contemptible.
“They let the men kiss them?” I demanded.
“Certainly,—all the girls that have a good time. After all what harm does a little flirtation do?”
The explanation strangely assuaged my anger. “All the girls do it,”—evidently it was custom. I sank back listless once again. He made an effort to put his arm around me.
“Don’t touch me,” I demanded, and he made no further attempt. My head getting increased command over my tongue, I asked him questions concerning his hockey, how young he was when he first began to play, etc. He fell into an easy conversation and soon I had compelled myself to forget the worst unpleasantness.
After a little while I suggested that his mother might be wondering about him.
“Never mind mother; she’ll get over it,” he protested.
“But we should really go back to the ball-room,” I said.
“Are you all right?” he asked with a genuine concern.