"I hope you come out all right, I'm sure," replied Peggy pertly, elevating her small nose a little.
Harold watched her disappear into the Sayre living room with mingled resentment and a childish desire to rush in after her and tell her she was, as usual, right. He had an impulse to put himself into her hands, to confess to her he was worried, to ask her advice about this whole complicated business of the Frolic.
But then the stubborn pride that was his inheritance from Henry Lamb asserted itself. Peggy Sayre was assuming too much. She was acting as if she owned him. She had turned him down as her escort for the Frolic. On a legitimate excuse, to be sure. But was it legitimate? He guessed she could have gotten off that evening if she had wanted to. She had refused him, maybe, because she was peeved that he had announced himself as Frolic host without consulting her. Well, he'd show her. He had to have a girl for the Frolic. Golly, the host himself couldn't go stag.
He went out to Blanchard's Drug Store, around the corner on University Street, and telephoned to the only other Tate girl he knew—Grace Beach.
The giggling Delphine answered the tele
