Faxon's features tightened. "I'm afraid I don't understand...."
"That's a lie," said Wynrod in an ugly, deliberate way.
"Now see here...." Faxon tried to bluster, but it was patently forced.
"Either you or the Bakers have got to get out of this house." The words were said quietly enough, but the determination behind them was plain. Faxon realised that, and tried equivocation.
"Why?"
"Because I won't have this sort of thing going on in my house."
"Your house?" There was just the faintest suggestion of an emphasis upon the pronoun.
"My house," repeated Roger coldly. "I saw you and Della last night. And I know you met in town to-day. If she wants to make that kind of an ass of herself outside, that's her business. But she can't do it here. John Baker's my friend."
For an instant Faxon's jaw was set with curled lips, and his eyes blazed. Then the whole expression changed, and he shrugged his shoulders and laughed—though not very easily.
"Why, Roger old boy, you're all wrong. You're quite mistaken about Della Baker. She and I are good friends—nothing more. She's an unhappy little woman, that's all. She—oh well, she's taken my friendship for something more. She...."