“Mean?... She told me.”
“Told you what?”
“That she was—defiled.... That you—”
Cantor laughed. He understood, and, being an opportunist, availed himself of the opportunity. “What’s it to you?” he said. “Miss von Essen can choose her—friends.... What’s there to rave about?... If a pretty girl throws herself at your head, do you call a policeman?”
It was confirmation; the thing was past doubting. Potter got to his feet just as Hildegarde returned with her wetted handkerchief, which she would have applied to his wounded head, but he repulsed her, would not let her touch him, and stood wavering dizzily.
“Just a moment,” he said to Cantor, “and we’ll finish this.”
Cantor smiled grimly. “Philip,” he said, “I haven’t any desire to brawl with this fellow.”
Philip came forward eagerly, the driver ready in his hands.
“Don’t, Potter,” Hildegarde said. “Go away. You don’t know these men. You don’t know—”
“Miss von Essen!” said Cantor, sharply.