"You know well enough."
"No, I don't," said Clancy.
"Yes, you do, too," asserted Randall.
"Why"—and Clancy was wide-eyed—"how could I?"
Randall stared down at her. He had made a great discovery.
"You're a flirt," he declared bitterly.
He could feel Clancy stiffen in his arms. Her face, quickly averted, seemed to radiate chill, as an iceberg, though invisible, casts its cold atmosphere ahead. He had offended beyond hope of forgiveness. Wherefore, like the criminal who might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, he plunged into newer and greater offenses.
"Well, of course I'm not a multimillionaire, and I don't keep a press-agent to tell the world what a great man I am, like Vandervent, but still—" He paused, as though confronted by thoughts too terrible for utterance. Clancy sniffed.
"Running other men down doesn't run you up, Mr. Randall."
She felt, as soon as she had uttered the words, that they were unworthy of her. And because she felt that she had spoken in a common fashion, she became angry at Randall, who had led her to this—well, indiscretion.