Gerry pondered the question for a moment. He was really thinking, all the time, how extraordinarily lovely Teddie could look in blue-fox.
“He’s a man whom I have the privilege of not knowing,” was Gerry’s retarded but none the less satisfactory reply. “Why do you ask?”
“Because he’s suing me for twenty-five thousand dollars,” was Teddie’s altogether unexpected announcement. Gerry, however, seemed determined to remain immobile.
“Not for breach of promise?” he asked, with an air of diffidence.
“No; it’s for what I suppose you’d call breach of the peace,” explained his client.
“What did you do?” inquired Gerry, with vivid but secret memories of the Nero incident.
“I had his nose thumped,” acknowledged Teddie with vigor.
“Why?” asked Gerry, wondering why his mind kept straying back to one-eyed Russian rats.
Teddie hesitated. It wasn’t an easy thing to talk about. That was a lesson she had already learned. But Gerry was different. He was one of her own world and one of her own set, and he’d look at the thing in the right way, in the only way.
“Why?” he repeated, secretly astounded by this new mood of humility in which he found Teddie Hayden immersed.