A moment she paused before Johnson Boller, looking him up and down with a scorn so terrible that, innocent or otherwise, he cringed visibly. Another moment her eyes seemed to soften a little, for they were deep and wonderful, maddeningly beautiful, but millions of miles from the unworthy creature who had once called them his own. This, apparently, was Beatrice's fashion of saying an eternal good-by to one she had once loved—for having looked and thrilled him, she moved on, and the door closed behind her.
"She means it!" croaked Johnson Boller.
"She'll cool down," said Anthony.
"She will not, and—she means it!" cried his friend, wrath rising by great leaps. "She's going to sue me for divorce—me, that never even looked a chicken in the eye on the street. She's going to bust up our happy little home, Anthony, and it's your fault!"
"Poppycock!" said his host.
"That be damned!" stated Johnson Boller, and this time he actually howled the foul words. "That's what she wants to do, and I don't blame her! But she'll never do it, Anthony! Your reputation's all right—it's unfortunate for the girl, of course, but I'm going to stop her!"
"How?"
"I'm going to tell the cold truth and make the girl back it up!"
"Hey?"
"I owe something to myself and to Beatrice, and I don't owe anything to you or the Dalton girl! Where's my hat?"