“A woman?”
Briggs ran his fingers through his hair. He took a long breath. “Yes,” he said, wearily. “Don’t you remember Miss Wing? She was at my wife’s ball last Spring.”
“Yes,” Farley replied. “She was disgruntled because she’d been put into a side room for supper with the rest of us newspaper people. Can that have been the reason?”
“No; she had a better reason. But that supper arrangement was a blunder, wasn’t it? I’ve heard from that a dozen times since. And Mrs. Briggs and I knew nothing about it till the supper was all over.”
“But she was a friend of West’s,” Farley went on. “He came to her rescue at the ball, I remember. He used to put himself out to do her favors.”
“Yes, it’s one of his principles to be particularly civil to newspaper people. I’ve often heard him say that. But she’s gone back on him. She throws him down as hard in this article as she does me. Oh, well,” Briggs added, stretching out his arms, “I sometimes think that these things, instead of hurting a man, really do him good.”
“That’s pretty cynical, isn’t it?” said Farley, smiling. “It’s a little hard on the rest of us in the newspaper line, too.”
Briggs rose and began to pace the room. “I’m out of sorts now, Farley. Don’t mind what I say. Have you fellows had anything to eat?” he asked, stopping suddenly.
“We had something brought in,” said Guy, returning with the typewritten letter. “Didn’t have time to go out. Will you sign this?”
“Don’t you think you’d better get something?” Farley asked.