“Do you know why I stayed?” she demanded, whiter than ever, stunned by the colossal egotism that could assume so much.
“Yes—for this,” was his reply as he took possession of the two barricading arms in their loose-sleeved blouse.
She tried to gasp out a desperate “Wait!” but he smothered the cry on her lips. It was not a scream that she gave voice to, when she could catch her breath, but more a moan of hate tangled up with horror.
And it was at that precise moment that Gunboat Dorgan stepped into the room.
Teddie’s persecutor, with one quick glance over his shoulder, saw the intruder. He saw the younger man in the natty high-belted sophomoric-looking suit that gave him the beguiling air of a stripling, saw him standing there, studiously arrested, appraisingly alert, with anticipation as sweet to his palate as a chocolate-drop is sweet to the tongue of a street urchin.
“And what do you want?” demanded Uhlan, with one appropriative arm still grasping the girl in the paint-smudged smock.
“I want yuh,” announced Gunboat Dorgan, shedding his coat with one and only one miraculously rapid movement of the arms.
The big portrait-painter slowly released his hold. His face hardened. Then he looked sharply at Teddie. Then he looked even more sharply at the audacious youth who had so significantly kicked a chair away from the center of the room.
“What does all this mean?” he demanded, drawing himself up, for Gunboat Dorgan was already advancing toward him.
“It means I’m going to pound this zooin’-bug out o’ your fat carcase,” cried the smaller man, with exultation in his kindling Celtic eyes.