"Let him box! I'll tear him limb from limb!" roared Hilary Vance ferociously; and he strode up and down the studio, limping that he might not press heavily on his aching toes.
Pollyooly gazed at him doubtfully. Flossie's account of Mr. Butterwick's prowess had impressed her too deeply to permit her to believe that anything but painful ignominious defeat awaited Hilary Vance at his hands.
"But he blacks people's eyes and makes their noses bleed," protested Pollyooly.
"I'll tear him limb from limb!" roared Hilary Vance, still ferociously, but with less conviction in his tone.
"And he doesn't care how big anybody is, if they don't know how to box," Pollyooly insisted.
"No more do I!" roared Hilary Vance.
He stamped up and down the studio yet more vigorously since his aching toes were growing easier. Then he sank into a chair—a stronger chair—gingerly; and in a more moderate tone said:
"I'll have the scoundrel's blood. I'll teach him to cross my path."
He paused, considering the matter more coldly, and Pollyooly anxiously watched his working face. Little by little it grew calmer.
"After all it may not be the scoundrel's fault," he said in a tone of some magnanimity. "I know what women are—treachery for treachery's sake. Why should I destroy the poor wretch whose heart has probably been as scored as mine by the discovery of her treachery? He is a fellow victim."