A little man named
Warburton, who knew it all, persuaded Perry to superman her, to get
a marriage license and go up to the Medill house and tell her she'd
have to marry him at once or call it off forever. This is some
stunt--but Perry tried it on December the twenty-ninth. He presented
self, heart, license, and ultimatum, and within five minutes they
were in the midst of a violent quarrel, a burst of sporadic open
fighting such as occurs near the end of all long wars and engagements.
It brought about one of those ghastly lapses in which two people who
are in love pull up sharp, look at each other coolly and think it's
all been a mistake. Afterward they usually kiss wholesomely and
assure the other person it was all their fault. Say it all was my
fault! Say it was! I want to hear you say it!
But while reconciliation was trembling in the air, while each was,
in a measure, stalling it off, so that they might the more
voluptuously and sentimentally enjoy it when it came, they were
permanently interrupted by a twenty-minute phone call for Betty from
a garrulous aunt who lived in the country. At the end of eighteen
minutes Perry Parkhurst, torn by pride and suspicion and urged on by
injured dignity, put on his long fur coat, picked up his light brown
soft hat and stalked out the door.
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