Militantly Violet whipped off a glove. “Frankly that creature is a criminal. Never, in all my life, have I seen such an exhibition of bad taste. But then, as they say here, bad taste leads to crime—to such vulgar forms of it at that.”
“Even so, I don’t see how it helps me.”
“But he struck you,” Violet, more bellicose than ever, exclaimed. “You told me so. What more would you have. But aren’t you difficile to-day!” Suspiciously she considered her friend. “You’ve got something up your sleeve.”
“If I have,” Leilah, in an effort to parry the thrust, replied, “at least it is not witnesses.”
Cogently Violet nodded. “Come to me then. Divorce is the mother-in-law of invention. If you haven’t any witnesses, I’ll find something else. I make a specialty of finding things before they are lost.”
This programme hardly suited Leilah’s book. Again she parried. “Last night—and what a night!—I dreamed I was feasting with the dead. It was so peaceful. It is that that I want. It is peace the very fibres of my being crave.”
Here were heights—or depths—where Violet could not follow. With a smile she tacked.
“Before you dreamed your dream I noticed that you wore a very ducky frock.”
“It is stained. So am I. The champagne Barouffski threw stained me within and without.”
Here were other heights. Readily Violet skirted them.