Part 25 (1/2)
”No matter.” His eyes were on hers.
”But it does matter. Willie's cake will be spoiled.”
She tried vainly to draw away from the grip that imprisoned her.
”Please let me go.”
He bent across the table until he could almost feel the blood beating in her cheeks.
”Say it once more,” he pleaded.
Again her hand fluttered in his strong grasp.
”Please!”
”Please what?” persisted Robert Morton.
”Please--please--Bob,” she murmured.
He was at the other side of the table now, but she was no longer there.
Instead she stood at the screen door, shaking the flour from her ap.r.o.n.
”Don't move!” she cried severely. ”You've walked all through that flour and are tracking it about every step you take. Look at the pantry! I shall have to sweep it all up.”
”I'll do it,” he answered with instant penitence.
”No. You sit right down there in that chair and don't you stir. I will go and get the dustpan and brush.”
”I'm awfully sorry,” called Bob, plunged into the depths of despair.
”I didn't realize that when you turned the handle of the darn thing the stuff went through.”
”What did you think a flour-sifter was for?” asked she, dimpling.
”I wasn't thinking of flour-sifters,” declared he significantly.
He saw her blush.
”Mayn't I please get up?”
”No. Not until your shoes are brushed off,” she replied provokingly.
”Let me take the brush then.”
”Don't you see I am using it?”
”You could let me take it a second.”
”I have been taught to complete one task before I began another,” was the tantalizing reply, as she went on with her sweeping.