"Let's not discuss her."
"As you like. But you've got to get things straight. Just because I was decent to her when her husband wasn't, and she fancied me in love with her, doesn't make me the sort of chap you seem to think me, does it?"
Roger was silent. Faxon assumed that the silence meant an acceptance of his explanation, and his apparent success made him careless. His voice softened and his manner became almost feline. He put his hand on the other's shoulder.
"You've got it all dead wrong, my boy. Della's spoiled the party for me. She's stuck to me like a barnacle. I didn't come out here for her. I wanted to see Judith. Why...."
Roger seemed suddenly to grow a head taller. His eyes flamed like banked fires, and his nostrils dilated. His fists clenched fiercely. "Cut that—cut it, I tell you," he ground thickly through his set teeth. "Don't you ever speak of my sister like that. By God, I won't stand it, you hear." His voice was low but clear and vibrant with suppressed passion.
Faxon recoiled, and his suavity left him. "Your sister is of age, I believe," he said with a steely evenness. "She needs no protector."
"You keep away, I tell you. You keep away." Roger's breath came shortly, and his fists clenched and unclenched themselves spasmodically.
"If I'm not good enough to look at your sister, how about you—and Molly Wolcott? I can't see that little Vera's any better than Della Baker."
"Cut it, Faxon. You're going too far!"
"Is that so?" sneered the older man harshly. "Well, what if I go farther. I won't take much nonsense from you, my cock."