Breen, however, was through. He arose from his chair. This had been impudence beyond all impudence. And the man of success turned his back upon the waitress.
Erna likewise got up, leaving the sketch on the table. She did not offer a second apology. Instead, she drew on her coat, picked up her hat and walked over to the glass. Her face was crimson.
Breen was quite sorry. He came behind Erna and made several attempts to clear some momentary pangs of conscience. But Erna would not listen. He moved away, pride clouding his face.
Erna hurried toward the door. Breen followed her, offering one or two final excuses. But she refused to answer, and went out. Breen slammed the door behind her. Presently, he was busy pacing the studio in a vain endeavor to regain some of his composure.
Steps were to be heard coming along the hallway. The door was opened cautiously, and Nielsen’s head and shoulders appeared. And his caressing voice questioned: “Well, your Highness, what is your decision? Moral, unmoral or—?”
Breen faced about, swore a strong oath and commanded: “Get out of here!”
“But, dear Bainbridge—”
“Get out, you spy!” Breen continued angrily, and went toward the door.
“But I want to know your decision.”
“Moral, moral, a million times moral—she has degenerated—in fact, she hasn’t even degenerated. I wouldn’t do her the honor of saying so. She’s always been a narrow, conventional, contemptible little thing. Is that enough, you ass? She’s a—”