But Polly sat, shaking her head in somber discontent, the little blue rings of her cigarette rising undisturbed before her.
“Who was he, Nina?” she asked after a time.
“Who was who? The big bald-face guy down the table?—that was Rankin of Rankin and Swan. He acted like a good sport. As for Jimmy Haddon, he must have chipped in fifty, anyways.”
But Polly was shaking her head from side to side.
“Oh, of course, you mean the reuben at the head of the table you were joshing. It was the hit of the evening.”
“Was it, though?” said Polly vaguely.
“The hit of the evening, kid. That’s what brought them across.”
“Well,” said Polly, “it was a raw deal for him, I suppose. Look here.” She held up her wrist. It showed a blue line about it. “I never felt a man’s hand like that in all my life. He could have broken my arm if he’d wanted to.” She pushed a bracelet reflectively up and down across the bruised ring which the clutch of Joslin’s fingers had left upon her white skin.
“Oh, I guess he liked it all right,” commented Nina casually. “They mostly do.”
“That’s the trouble,” rejoined Polly sagely. “I can’t tell how it was, but somehow that man made me feel ashamed! There was something in his face—I can’t tell you what. Ever since, I’ve been feeling as if this money didn’t belong to us. I’ve a notion to give you my share, Nina.”