“Well,” Driscoll said, “suppose you explain — or apologize.”
“Bosh!” Mason said. “What do you people think you’re pulling?”
Rosalind Prescott, standing very straight, said, “I think Mr. Mason’s right.”
“Rossy!” Rita exclaimed.
Driscoll didn’t take his eyes from the lawyer. “I don’t think he’s right,” he said, “and I don’t like his manner.”
“You,” Mason told him, “can go to the devil! I suppose because you’re good-looking, women have been easy for you all your life. Now you’re in a jam and you find it a lot easier to hide behind petticoats than to come out in the open.”
Driscoll started for Mason. The lawyer raised himself ominously from the bed. Rosalind Prescott, jumping forward, grabbed Driscoll’s arm, clung to it and said, “Jimmy, stop it! You hear me? Stop it!”
Mason said, “Go ahead, you young fool. Start something. That’ll bring in the house detective, and then the cops. It’ll be about on a par with the bonehead moves you’ve made so far.”
Driscoll said with quivering lips, “I don’t have to take this from you, you know.”
“The hell you don’t,” Mason said easily, “You just think you don’t. You’ll take it and like it. Sit down!”