Mrs. Carey's hands dropped to her side. Her eyes seemed to grow dry, as though she were controlling her tears by an effort of her will.
"I won't. The beast!" she cried. She rose, flinging off, though not rudely, Clancy's sympathetic embrace. "Miss Deane, don't you ever marry. Beasts—all of them!"
Clancy, with the memory of Vandervent's roses in her mind, shook her head.
"He—he just isn't himself, Mrs. Carey."
The other woman shrugged.
"'Not himself?' He is himself. When he's sober, he's worse, because then one can make no excuses for him. To insult a guest in my house——"
"I don't mind," stammered Clancy. "I—I make allowances——"
"So have I. So have all my friends. But now—I'm through with him. I——" Suddenly she sat down again, before a dressing-table. "That isn't true. I've promised him his chance, Miss Deane. He shall have it. We're going to the country. He has a little place up in the Dutchess County. We're going there to-day. The good Lord only knows how we'll reach it over the roads, but—it's his only chance. It's his last. And I'm a fool to give it to him. He'll be sober, but—worse then. And still— Hear him," she sneered.
Clancy listened. At first, she thought that it was mere maudlin speech, but as Don Carey's voice died away, she heard another voice—a mean, snarling voice.
"You think so, hey? Lemme tell you different. All I gotta do is to 'phone a cop, and——"