Page:Thunder on the Left (1925).djvu/45

 "George, do you love me?"

He made his usual unsatisfactory reply. "Well, what do you think?" Of course the proper answer is, "I adore you." She knew, by now, that he never would make it; probably because he was aware she craved it.

"I'm writing Miss Clyde to come to the Picnic."

He looked a little awkward.

"Needn't do that, I wrote to her yesterday. I said you were busy and wanted me to ask her."

"Well, of all things"

She curbed herself savagely. She wouldn't lose her temper. Damn, damn, damn. . . his damned impudence.

"When is she coming?"

"I don't know yet. To-morrow morning, I dare say."

"Well, then, we'll have the Picnic to-morrow, get it over with."

He began to say something, put out his hand, but she brushed fiercely past him and ran into the dining room. She tore her letter into shreds, together with the clean sheet she had brought down. The room was full of a warm irritating buzz.

"George!" she cried angrily, with undeniable command. "Come here and put out this damned bee!"