“You mean——?”
“Ralston!”
Dora had never looked at Smith as she looked at him now.
“I beg to be excused from your criticisms of Mr. Ralston.”
Smith had not dreamed that the gentle, girlish voice could take on such a quality. It cut him, stung him, until he felt hot and cold by turns.
“Oh, I didn’t know he was such a friend,” he sneered.
“Yes”—her eyes did not quail before the look that flamed in his—“he is just such a friend!”
They had risen; and Smith, looking at her as she stood erect, her head high in defiance, could have choked her in his jealous rage.
He stumbled rather than walked toward the door.
“Good-night,” he said in a strained, throaty voice.