So, after the dinner was over, Spurlock took her home; and worked far into the night.
* * * * *
The general office was an extension of the west wing of the McClintock bungalow. From one window the beach was always visible; from another, the stores. Spurlock was invariably at the high desk in the early morning, poring over ledgers, and giving the beach and the stores an occasional glance. Whenever McClintock had guests, he loafed with them on the west veranda in the morning.
This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's.
"Sorry," said McClintock, "but I must ask you to check out this afternoon before five. I'm having some unexpected guests."
"Ah! Sometimes I wonder I don't run amok and kill someone," said the Wastrel, in broken English. "I give you all of my genius, and you say—'Get out!' I am some kind of a dog."
"That is your fault, none of mine. Without whisky," went on McClintock, "your irritability is beyond tolerance. You have said a thousand times that there was no shame in you. Nobody can trust you. Nobody can anticipate your next move. We tolerate you for your genius, that's a fact. But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself."
The Wastrel laughed. "Did you ever hear me whine?"
"No," admitted McClintock
"You've no objection to my dropping in again later, after your guests go?"