"Nothing," said Austin grimly, and left the room.

Like most people who try to dress in a hurry when they are angry, Austin
found that everything went wrong. There was no hot water left, and he
had to heat some himself for shaving while he took a cold bath; his
mother usually got his clothes ready for him when she knew he was
detained, but this time she had apparently been too rushed herself. He
couldn't find his evening shoes; he couldn't get his studs into his
stiff shirt until he had had a struggle that raised his temperature
several degrees higher than it was already; the big, jolly teamful
departed while he was rummaging through his top drawer for fresh
handkerchiefs; and he was vainly trying to adjust his white tie
satisfactorily, when a knock at the door informed him that he was not
alone in the house after all; he said "come in" crossly, and without
turning, and went on with his futile attempts.

"Has every one else gone? I didn't know I was so late--but I've been all
through the house downstairs calling, and couldn't get any answer. Let me
do that for you--let's take a fresh one--"

He wheeled sharply around, and found Sylvia standing beside
him--Sylvia, dressed in shell-pink, shimmering satin and foamy lace,
with pearls in her dark hair and golden slippers on her feet, her neck
and arms white and bare and gleaming. With a little sound that was half
a sob, and half a cry of joy, she flung her arms around his neck and
drew his face down to hers.

"Austin--I'm--I'm sorry--I do--beg your forgiveness from the bottom of my
heart. I promise--and I'll keep my promise--to be reasonable--and
kind--and fair--to stop making you miserable. It's been all my fault that