“Well, I am uneasy, and I can't help it,” Sanders went on, gloomily. “How can I help it? You left me so sad and depressed that you had hardly a word for me, and after seeing this Mr. Dwight you come out looking—do you know,” he broke off, “that you were there alone with that fellow nearly an hour?”
“Oh no, it couldn't have been so long,” she said, further irritated by his open defence of what he erroneously considered his rights.
“But it was, for I timed you,” Sanders affirmed. “Heaven knows I counted the actual minutes. There is a lot about this whole thing I don't like, but I hardly know what it is.”
“You are not only jealous but suspicious,” Helen said, sharply. “Those are things I don't like in any man.”
“I've offended you, but I didn't mean to,” Sanders said, with a sudden turn towards precaution. “You'll forgive me, won't you, Helen?”
“Oh yes, it's all right.” She had suddenly softened. “Really, I am sorry you feel hurt. Don't think any more about it. I have a reason which I can't explain for feeling rather cheerful just now.” They had reached the next street corner and she patised. “I want to go by Cousin Ida's. She lives down this way.”
“And you'd rather I didn't go along?”
“I have something particular to say to her.”
“Oh, I see. Then may I come as usual this afternoon?”
Her wavering, half-repentant glance fell. “Not this afternoon,” she said. “I ought to be with mammy. Couldn't you call this evening?”