on the edge of the bed as a pat of her hand invited him to, pulled up a
chair instead. It was going to be a real talk, not just a casual
good-night chat.

"We were wondering what had become of you," he said. "Poor Graham
was worried."

"Graham!" But she did not follow that up. "I decided we'd had temperament
enough for one evening," she explained in a matter-of-fact tone, "so when
I saw I was going to explode I came away quietly and did it in here. By
the time it was over I thought I might as well go to bed."

"It doesn't look as if you'd exploded very violently," he observed.

"Oh, I've cleared away the ruins," she said. "I hate reminders of a
mess."

It was like her exquisiteness to do that and it tightened his throat to
think about it. He'd have liked to make sure what the cause of the
explosion had been, but thought he'd better wait a while for that. All he
ventured in the way of sympathetic approbation was to reach out and pat
the ridge that extended down the middle of the bed. "It certainly has
been one devil of an evening," he said.

"I suppose it has," she agreed, thoughtfully. Then, noticing that this
had rather thrown him off his stride, she went on, "Tell me all that's
been happening since I ran away. How did Paula act when it was over?"

"I haven't seen her," he said. "She never came down at all. Of course it
must have been--well, in a way, a devil of an evening for her, too.