"Haven't I enough on my mind and you stand there and _laugh!_" Then he slipped again.
"Well, it _is_ funny, Isabelle, and we were talking the other day about a sense of humor being--" She was looking at him with something that was not a smile, rather the faint, mirthless echo of a smile, in the corners of her mouth.
"Oh, shut up!" she cried suddenly, and fled down the hallway toward her room.

Amory stood there, covered with remorseful confusion.
"Damn!" When Isabelle reappeared she had thrown a light wrap about her shoulders, and they descended the stairs in a silence that endured through dinner.
"Isabelle," he began rather testily, as they arranged themselves in the car, bound for a dance at the Greenwich Country Club, "you're angry, and I'll be, too, in a minute.

Let's kiss and make up." Isabelle considered glumly.
"I hate to be laughed at," she said finally.
"I won't laugh any more.

I'm not laughing now, am I ?" "You did." "Oh, don't be so darned feminine." Her lips curled slightly.
"I'll be anything I want." Amory kept his temper with difficulty.

He became aware that he had not an ounce of real affection for Isabelle, but her coldness piqued him.