“Suit yourself about that,” Helen replied coolly. “There are taxicabs at the door and the cars run every six minutes.”
Bruce contributed cordially:
“Sprudell, you just dust along whenever you get ready.”
“You’ll repent this—both of you!” His voice shook with chagrin and fury—“I’ll see to that if it takes the rest of my life and my last dollar.”
Bruce warned in mock solicitude:
“Don’t excite yourself, it’s bad for your heart; I can tell that from your color.”
Sprudell’s answer was a malignant look from one to the other.
“On the square,” said Bruce ruefully when the last turn of the revolving door had shut Sprudell into the street, “I hadn’t an idea of stirring up anything like this when I spoke to you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Helen answered coldly. “It will disabuse his mind of the notion that he has any claim on me.”
“It did look as though he wanted to give that impression.”