“Stop!” and LeGrand Blossom snapped out the words in such a manner that the desperate woman did stop.
“Minnie, go away,” he pleaded, more gently. “I'll come to you as soon as I can, and explain everything. Please believe in me!”
“I—I don't believe I can—again, LeGrand,” faltered Minnie. “I—I heard what you said to her just now—that you couldn't do anything more for her. Oh, what have you been doing for her? Who is she? Tell me! Oh, I must hear it, though I dread it!”
“Yes, you shall hear it!” cried LeGrand Blossom, and there was desperation in his voice. “I was going to tell you, anyhow, before I married you—”
“Oh, you're really going to marry her, are you?” sneered the blonde. “Really? How interesting!”
“Will you be quiet?” said LeGrand, and there was that in his voice which seemed to cow the blonde woman.
“Minnie,” went on LeGrand Blossom, “its a hard thing for a man to talk about a woman, but sometimes it has to be done. And it's doubly hard when it's about a woman a man once cared for. But I'm going to take my medicine, and she's got to take hers.”
“I'm no quitter! I'm a sport, I am!” was the defiant remark. “So was Mr. Carwell—Old Carwell we used to call him. But he had more pep than some of you younger chaps.
“Leave his name out of this!” growled LeGrand, like some dog trying to keep his temper against the attacks of a cur.
“This woman—I needn't tell you her name now, for she has several,” he went on to Minnie. “This woman and I were once engaged to be married. She was younger then—and—different. But she began drinking and—well, she became impossible. Believe me,” he said, turning to the figure beside him, “I don't want to tell this, but I've got to square myself.”