“Oh, don’t rub it in, Betty. That’s past. But what do you think people will think when they know she wasn’t on board, and that you came ’way up here alone to join me?”
She looked at him steadily. I half rose to leave, but a glance from her eyes told me to remain. It was not a pleasant scene. I stared at my napkin.
“You see, Betty,” he continued, leaning loosely across the table, “that’s what it will look like. Won’t it, Gardy?”
I did not reply.
“What will it look like, George?” she asked evenly.
“Like you were chasing me.”
She laughed, and her laughter was like a song-burst of wholesome young life in the atmosphere of Chanler’s drink-drugged maundering.
“Well, George, isn’t that what I am doing?”
“People will talk, Betty,” he persisted. “It’s a bad situation—for you. I—I’m sorry I got you to come here—no, hang it! I’m not. But I am worrying about your reputation, Betty.”
“I think I can take care of my reputation, George,” she said quietly.