“Let’s go down.”

“She must be a deep one—­dangerous,” said Ursula, furious against the woman who was daring to resist her matchless brother.  “Fred, I’m wild to see her.  Maybe I’d see something that’d help cure you.”

“You keep out of it,” he replied, curtly but not with ill humor.

“It can’t last long.”

“It’d do for me, if it did.”

“The marriage will settle everything,” said Ursula with confidence.

“It’s got to,” said he grimly.

XI

The next day or the next but one Dorothy telephoned him.  He often called her up on one pretext or another, or frankly for no reason at all beyond the overwhelming desire to hear her voice.  But she had never before “disturbed” him.  He had again and again assured her that he would not regard himself as “disturbed,” no matter what he might be doing.  She would not have it so.  As he was always watching for some faint sign that she was really interested in him, this call gave him a thrill of hope—­a specimen of the minor absurdities of those days of extravagant folly.

“Are you coming over to-day?” she asked.

“Right away, if you wish.”

“Oh, no.  Any time will do.”

“I’ll come at once.  I’m not busy.”

“No.  Late this afternoon.  Father asked me to call up and make sure.  He wants to see you.”

“Oh—­not you?”

“I’m a business person,” retorted she.  “I know better than to annoy you, as I’ve often said.”

He knew it was foolish, tiresome; yet he could not resist the impulse to say, “Now that I’ve heard your voice I can’t stay away.  I’ll come over to lunch.”

Her answering voice was irritated.  “Please don’t.  I’m cleaning house. 
You’d be in the way.”

He shrank and quivered like a boy who has been publicly rebuked.  “I’ll come when you say,” he replied.

“Not a minute before four o’clock.”

“That’s a long time—­now you’ve made me crazy to see you.”

“Don’t talk nonsense.  I must go back to work.”

“What are you doing?” he asked, to detain her.

“Dusting and polishing.  Molly did the sweeping and is cleaning windows now.”

“What have you got on?”

“How silly you are!”

“No one knows that better than I. But I want to have a picture of you to look at.”

“I’ve got on an old white skirt and an old shirt waist, both dirty, and a pair of tennis shoes that were white once but are gray now, where they aren’t black.  And I’ve got a pink chiffon rag tied round my hair.”

“Pink is wonderful when you wear it.”

“I look a fright.  And my face is streaked—­and my arms.”

“Oh, you’ve got your sleeves rolled up.  That’s an important detail.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“No, I’m thinking of your arms.  They are—­ravishing.”