Labotte stared.
“Bud,” he blurted, “we ’af arrange to go——”
“I sit here,” said Susan.
Labotte sat down by her side and took out a cigarette. His grin had faded into a supercilious and rather unpleasant regard which sat uneasily upon his insignificant face.
“And,” continued Miss Crail, “I’ld be glad if you wouldn’t refer to me as ‘your little horse.’ It suggests an intimacy which does not exist between us; it’s vulgar and it’s bad form. I don’t suppose that any of those reasons will appeal to you, but you can take my word for it they’re pretty sound.”
Labotte regarded her open-mouthed.
After a moment the blood began to pour into his face. Very soon this was completely suffused and glistening. The scarlet of his ears suggested that they were on fire. As for his eyes, these had become small slits of grey-green flame.
He shut his mouth with a snap.
“What?” he breathed through his teeth. “I—I am vulgar?”
“Intensely vulgar,” said Susan, producing a cigarette. “Get me a match.”