He had never given notice before but the hackneyed phrase fell crisply from his lips. For many reasons, Peter didn't want to go, but he bowed and walked quickly across the room. "Good-night," he said.
Before he had reached the door the frightened man came stumbling after him and caught him by the arm.
"No, no, Nichols. Come back. D'ye hear? You mustn't be so d—— touchy. Come back. You can't go. I didn't mean anything. Come now!"
Peter paused, his hand on the knob, and looked down into the man's flabby, empurpled countenance.
"I thought you meant it," he said.
"No. I—I didn't. I—I like you, Nichols—liked you from the very first—yesterday. Of course you can't be responsible for all the boneheads here."
Peter had "called the bluff." Perhaps the lesson might have a salutary effect. And so, as his good humor came back to him, he smiled pleasantly.
"You see, Mr. McGuire, you could hardly expect Andy to shoot the chauffeur. They're on excellent terms."
McGuire had settled down into a chair near the table, and motioned Peter to another one near him.
"Sit down, Nichols. Another glass, Stryker. So." He poured the whisky with an assumption of ease and they drank.