"I don't set up for no beauty prize. Tie a pink ribbon in Blondy's hair and
take him to a baby show if you want. He's about young enough to enter."

If she could have found a ready retort her anger might have passed away in
words, but no words came, and she turned pale. It was here that Gregg made
his crucial mistake, for he thought the pallor came from fear, fear which
his sham jealousy had roused in her, perhaps. He should have maintained a
discreet silence, but instead, he poured in the gall of complacency upon a
raw wound.

"Blondy's all right," he stated beneficently, "but you just forget about
him tonight. You're going to that dance, and you're going with me. If
there's any explanations to be made, you leave 'em to me. I'll handle
Blondy."

"You handle Blondy!" she whispered. Her voice came back; it rang: "You
couldn't if he had one hand tied behind him." She measured him for another
blow. "I'm going to that dance and I'm going with Mr. Hansen."

She knew that he would have died for her, and he knew that she would have
died for him; accordingly they abandoned themselves to sullen fury.

"You're out of date, Vic," she ran on. "Men can't drag women around
nowadays, and you can't drag me. Not--one--inch." She put a vicious little
interval between each of the last three words.

"I'll be calling for you at seven o'clock."

"I won't be there."