"The cost of bringing wheat down to its normal figure," Wingate answered.
"I couldn't do it if I would," Phipps argued. "There's Skinflint Martin—he won't part with a bushel. I'm not alone in this. Come, I have my cheque book in my pocket. You can fight the B. & I. to the death, if you will—commercially, politically, anyhow—but I want my nephew."
Wingate threw open the door.
"There was a girl once," he reminded him, "my ward, who drowned herself.
To hell with your nephew, Phipps!"
Passion for a moment made once more a man of Phipps. His eyes blazed.
"And to hell with you!—Hypocrite!—Adulterer!" he shouted.
Wingate's fist missed the point of his adversary's chin by less than a thought. Phipps went staggering back through the open door into the corridor and stood leaning against the wall, half dazed, his hand to his cheek. Wingate looked at him contemptuously for a moment, every nerve in his body aching for the fight. Then he remembered.
"Get home to your kennel, Phipps," he ordered.
Then he slammed the door and locked it.