Pete subsided into silence and Bill shaved. The young man who would be a valet was not enjoying a happy morning. Part of it was because of the night before, but some of the unhappiness lay rooted in the fact that Bill's secretary persisted in taking him at face value. At the same time Pete was convinced that she knew better; that there was a mocking deliberation in the way that she held him to his bargain.
"Confound it, Bill! That girl's no fool."
"I said it first," Bill reminded him. "I said it days ago."
"She knows darn well I'm something more than a valet."
"She never said it to me, Pete; never even hinted at it. I don't believe she even suspects."
"Bill, that's an insult. If you say she doesn't even suspect, I'll poison you. Why, any girl with good sense would suspect. Do I look like a valet?"
"Sure."
Bill had finished shaving, so it was easy enough to dodge the book.
There had been a good deal of talk like that ever since the party became a fixed project. Pete Stearns was discovering that the business of flinging gibes had become less profitable; either Bill's hide was getting thicker or his perceptions were becoming dulled. It was no longer possible always to get a rise; sometimes it shocked him to find that he was rising himself. And then there was that secretary; she had annoying moments of superiority. She was in a fair way to become a snob, thought Pete, and just because she could not recognize the difference between a real social gulf and one that was self-imposed. Some day he was going to cross that gulf in a wild leap and make her feel silly.