"A rope!" he demanded, without paying any attention to us and diving
into corners of the room. "Good heavens, isn't there a rope in this
confounded house!"
He turned and rushed out, without any explanation, and left us staring
at the door.
"Bother the rope!" I found myself forced to look into two earnest eyes.
"Kit, were you VERY angry when I kissed you that night on the roof?"
"Very," I maintained stoutly.
"Then prepare yourself for another attack of rage!" he said. And Betty
opened the door.
She had on a fetching pale blue dressing gown, and one braid of her
yellow hair was pulled carelessly over her shoulder. When she saw me
on my knees beside the bed (oh, yes, I forgot to say that, quite
unconsciously, I had slid into that position) she stopped short, just
inside the door, and put her hand to her throat. She stood for quite a
perceptible time looking at us, and I tried to rise. But Tom shamelessly
put his arm around my shoulders and held me beside him. Then Betty
took a step back and steadied herself by the door frame. She had really
cared, I knew then, but I was too excited to be sorry for her.
"I--I beg your pardon for coming in," she said nervously. "But--they
want you downstairs, Kit. At least, I thought you would want to go,
but--perhaps--"
Just then from the lower part of the house came a pandemonium of noises;
women screaming, men shouting, and the sound of hatchet strokes and
splintering wood. I seized Betty by the arm, and together we rushed down
the stairs.