"I don't know what you mean by 'the other thing'," he bit out.
"Then I'll tell you: You thought it wouldn't be such a bad idea to show Madeleine Barclay what a vast difference there is between yourself and Ingerson as a three-meal-a-day proposition; as a steady diet, so to speak, in an environment which couldn't very well be changed or broken. Wasn't that it?"
"Something of the sort, maybe," he admitted, rather sheepishly, I thought.
"And it isn't working out?"
"You can see for yourself."
"What I see is that you are giving Ingerson a good bit more than a guest's chance."
"You don't understand," he returned gloomily.
"Naturally. I'm no mind reader."
While the Andromeda was shearing her way through three of the long Caribbean swells he was silent. Then he said: "I'm going to tell you, Dick; I shall have a fit if I don't tell somebody. Madeleine has turned me down—not once, you know, but a dozen times. It's the cursed money!"