"But not for your being—unconventional. I reckon Montague is alone responsible for that, while you, with your fascinating beauty, are responsible for nothing at all but the impulse.—Are you going to quit him—Porshinger, I mean?"
"That is the question—and I don't know the answer. If I quit him, he will be revenged on Montague; if I don't quit him, I shall have to fight him for my reputation—or so much of it as is left."
"Is he so bad as all that?" Gladys exclaimed.
"He is. His one vulnerable point is his overweening desire to get into society. That fact may make him controllable. I'm between his Satanic Majesty and the deep water. What to do, Gladys, what to do?"
"Do nothing," counselled her friend. "Be amiably polite, and refuse to see anything that you don't want to see or to infer anything that you don't want to infer."
"Suppose he doesn't leave it to inference?"
Gladys raised her eyebrows. "In that event, you tell Montague—and leave the rest to him. I rather fancy he will beat the life out of Porshinger; and I rather fancy he will enjoy doing it—very much enjoy it, indeed."
"The difficulty is, you can't beat the life out of a man—even figuratively speaking—without creating a sensation, getting yourself talked about and, like enough, into the law's clutches."
"If you would be left out of the sensation and the talk, I reckon Montague wouldn't mind in the least," Gladys remarked.