“Mr. Verriman on the telephone, madam.”
“I can’t come,” said Crystal. “Ask him to send a message.”
“Don’t you see, Crystal, what your plan would do?” said her father. “Either it would make Moreton a red revolutionist and me a persecuting Bourbon, or else it would just ruin us both for either of our objectives.”
“It won’t ruin you for my objectives,” said Crystal, “and women are more human, you know, than men.”
Another knock at the door. Tomes’s voice again:
“Mr. Verriman wishes to know if he might dine here this evening?”
“No,” said Cord, looking at Crystal.
Crystal raised her voice. “Certainly, Tomes. Say we shall be delighted to have him—at eight.”
Both men turned to her.
“Why did you do that, Crystal? Verriman—here—to-night?”