“Oh, I saw it all,” Bent half growled. “I was standing out here in the vestibule, where I could look inside, and I saw them time their movements to meet you.”
“Oh, pshaw! You must be mistaken.”
“I’m not—begging your pardon, Janet. I say it was a sheer case of nerve for two hired ball players to do a thing like that. I saw people staring as you were talking to them. I don’t wonder you were embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed! You must be mistaken, Benton.”
“Of course you were embarrassed—you blushed like fire. It was humiliating to be compelled to acknowledge an introduction to a common scrapper like that man Locke.”
“I assure you that I did not feel at all humiliated,” she returned, with a touch of defiance. “Instead, I was glad of the opportunity to meet him.”
King choked; the pallor of anger gave way to a flush of the same nature, and he gazed at her resentfully.
“You must be jesting,” he said, endeavoring to restrain himself. “I hope you’re not baiting me.”
“Not at all. Ever since the game yesterday I have felt much curiosity concerning Tom Locke. To some extent, it has been satisfied. I admit I was surprised to find him plainly very much of a gentleman.”
He bit his lip, his gloved hands gripping and crushing the soft felt hat, and for the moment he was afraid to speak again. Hatred for Tom Locke throbbed in every pulse beat.