"Flossie," he continued, "you ought to know better. Besides, you will waste your time. Mr. Wingate's taste in women is of a very—superior order. Doesn't care about your sort at all. He likes saints. That's right, isn't it, Wingate?"
"You seem to know," was the cool reply.
"Not 't tall sure," Dredlinton went on, balancing himself with difficulty, "that your new conquest would altogether approve of this, you know. Wingate, let me tell you that Flossie is a very dangerous young lady—destroys the peace of everybody—can't sleep myself for thinking of her. Not your sort at all, Wingate. We know your sort, don't we, eh?"
Wingate remained contemptuously silent. Kendrick rose from his place and laid his hand on Dredlinton's shoulder.
"Come and sit down, Dredlinton," he said shortly. "You're making an idiot of yourself."
"Go to hell!" the other replied truculently. "Who are you? Just that man's broker, that's all. Want to sell wheat, Wingate, or buy it, eh?"
Wingate looked at him steadily.
"You're drunk," he said. "I should advise you to get a friend to take you home."
"Drunk, am I?" Dredlinton shouted. "What if I am? I'm a better man drunk than you are sober—although she may not think so, eh?"
Wingate looked at him from underneath level brows.