“I wonder,” he said cautiously, “why Clive made such a fuss about that offer of Howard Morgan’s?”
“Well,” said Rose-Ann. “Leave the door open a moment to let the smoke out....”
“What kind of reputation has Howard Morgan, with—with regard to girls?” he asked point-blank.
“Oh,” said Rose-Ann, “the usual reputation of handsome poets, old and young. Why?”
“Then,” said Felix, “—then that was what Clive was thinking about!”
“I suppose so,” said Rose-Ann. “I think the room’s aired out now. You can close the door.”
“But,” said Felix, “It’s monstrous!”
“What—oh, you’re still talking about Phyllis? But why be angry at me about it?”
“I’m not angry at you, Rose-Ann; I’m disgusted with Clive for thinking of turning her over to that old scoundrel!... You don’t seem to care?”
“Must everybody in the world be sorry for poor Phyllis, and anxious about poor Phyllis, and worrying about poor Phyllis?” Rose-Ann demanded in a tone of exasperation. “I’m tired of her problems, myself. Can’t she decide what she wants to do without so much masculine assistance? After all, all I said was that it wasn’t my affair. Let her decide for herself.... And shut the door, please—it’s getting chilly....”