“What would you do?” he asked quietly.
“I’d bring her away!”
“Would you care to go and try it?”
This was a keener thrust than Hillyer had any intention of delivering, provoked though he was by Huntington’s behavior; for Seth had not included in his narrative any reference to the affair at the post-office, or to Haig’s visit to his house. Huntington’s face became purple; and if he had been apoplectic in disposition he would surely have suffered a seizure in that moment of choking rage.
“I’ll go there right enough!” he bellowed. “I’ll go, when I get ready. I’ll go when he’s able to stand up and take what’s coming to him. As for her––you can take her things, and her trunks too, while you’re about it.”
Hillyer gazed at him dumbfounded for just a breath of time. Then his own face flamed.
“Quite right, Mr. Huntington!” he said, taking a step toward him. “I haven’t seen much of Haig, but from what I’ve seen of you, I think his house can be no worse place for Miss Gaylord than yours. What’s more, you’re an––” He caught himself, whirled on his heel, and addressed Claire. “May I ask you, please, to pack Marion’s trunks. I’ll attend to mine.”
Claire had stood quite silent, with her blue eyes opening 160 wider and wider, for the moment helpless, but trusting more to Hillyer’s resources of diplomacy than to her husband’s self-control. Now her face crimsoned with mortification, and she stood up with all the inches of her five foot two.
“You’ll do no such thing!” she cried, and one little heel came down on the floor with a jolt. “The idea! The very idea! Oh!”
For a moment she stood poised, like a butterfly in a rage, if one can imagine it; then she tripped straight to Huntington, clasped the lapels of his coat, and drew herself up on tiptoes, trying to meet his eyes.