CHAPTER XI
A MUTINOUS ACTOR
John Ogden waited long enough to shake his fist toward the closed door before he turned back to regard Hugh, who, with features refined by illness, perfectly groomed, and grandly arrayed, seemed to him a new person. The gloomy expression in the eyes, however, warned him.
“Sit down again, Hugh,” he forced the tall fellow back into the white easy-chair, “and let me speak first.”
Hugh sat down perforce, but with a belligerent expression. “No, sir. I’m going to do all the speaking,” he said. “You got me into this and you’ve got to get me out.”
“Now, now, boy”—Ogden drew the nearest chair forward and dropped into it. “I expected I might find you a bit morbid—”
“Morbid!” explosively. “Me with a nurse! Me being stuffed four times a day with the delicacies of the season! Me dressed up like a Christmas doll! I don’t need anything but a wrap of tissue paper and a sprig of holly to be ready for delivery; and me a liar all the time—”
“Look here, Hugh”—John Ogden faced the indignation in the dark eyes. “Did you notice my escort as I came in? And is he on such intimate terms with you that he bolts into your room without ceremony?”
“We’re on no terms at all. I despise the little cockatoo and he hates me—”