t get in a huff over nothing," he urged, in real alarm. "Only, it
made me kind of mad to see Blondy standing there with that calf-look."

"What calf-look? He's a lot better to look at than you'll ever be."

A smear of red danced before the vision of Gregg.

"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"You're out of date, Vic," she ran on.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."

"Then I'll call on Blondy."

"You don't dare to. Don't you try to bluff me. I'm not that kind."

"Betty, d'you mean that? D'you think that I'm yaller?"

"I don't care what you are."

"I ask you calm and impersonal, just think that over before you say it."

"I've already thought it over."

"Then, by God," said Gregg, trembling, "I'll never take one step out of
my way to see you again."

He turned, so blind with fury that he shouldered the door on his way out
and so, into the saddle, with Grey Molly standing like a figure of rock,
as if she sensed his mood. He swung her about on her hind legs with a
wrench on the curb and a lift of his spurs, but when she leaped into a
gallop he brought her back to the walk with a cruel jerk; she began to
sidle across the field with her chin drawn almost back to her breast,