It would hurt him and--"
It was a very mean thing to say, and she knew it. Afterwards she thought
of many spirited and apposite words she might have spoken, but at the
moment all she could do was to fling herself haughtily out of the buggy
as it drew up before the curb and without a word or glance march stiffly
up the steps, where her father sat smoking his after-dinner cigar.
"Why, Milly," he exclaimed, "where've you been?"
She stalked past him into the house. She could hear her father ask
Snowden to stop and have some supper, and Snowden's refusal.
"You'll be over for a game later, Snow?"
"Guess not, Horace," and the buggy drove off.
Then for the first time it came over her what it would mean if she
should follow her first impulse and tell her father what had happened.
Mr. Snowden was not merely his most intimate friend, but in a way his
superior. If she should make things unpleasant between them, it might be
serious. So when her grandmother came tiptoeing into Milly's room to see
why she did not come down for her supper, Milly merely said she was too
tired to eat.
"What's happened?"
"That nasty Snowden man," Milly spluttered, "tried to kiss me and I had
to--to fight him.... Don't tell father!"
The little old lady was very much disturbed, but she did not tell her
son. Her policy was one of discreet silence about "unpleasant things" if
they could be covered up.
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