"Now you are getting angry again!" she accused, pale and furious.
"I don't care to be howled at. The case stands like this: You
must choose whether to get rid of that dog or to lose me. Take
your choice. If--"

"I read in a story book about a feller that had a thing like that
put up to him," said poor Link, unable to believe she was in
earnest. "His girl said: 'You gotta choose between me and
tobacco.' And he said: 'I'll choose tobacco. Not that I value
tobacco so all-fired much,' he says, 'but because a girl, who'd
make a man take such a choice, ain't worth giving up tobacco
for.' You see, dearie, it's this way --"

"You'll have that dog out of your house and out of your
possession, inside of twenty-four hours," she decreed, the white
anger of a grave-eyed woman making her cold voice vibrate, "or
you will drop my acquaintance. That is final. And it's definite.
The engagement is over--until I hear that your dog is killed or
given away or sold. Good night!"

She left the room in vindictive haste. So overwhelmingly angry
was she that she closed the door softly behind her, instead of
slamming it. Through all his swirl of misery Link had sense
enough to note this final symptom and wonder bitterly at it.

On his way out of the house he was hailed by a highpitched baby
voice from somewhere above him. Olive had crawled out of bed, and
in her white flannel pajamas she was leaning over the upper
balustrade.