"It is—Porshinger!" he answered—and braced himself for the explosion.
And it came—though not in the way he had anticipated.
"Porshinger! Porshinger!" she cried tensely—her sensitive nostrils aquiver, her eyes flashing, her cheeks suddenly aflame. "I hate him!—I hate him! He's a beast, Montague, a beast!"
"There isn't a doubt of it, sweetheart," he said soothingly. "I rejoice that you have found him out at last."
"I always knew it—but I didn't think he would dare try his ways with me."
"What did he do, dear?" Pendleton asked—"was it at the Croydens' last night?"
"Yes—in the conservatory.—He—kissed me by force—and repeated it at least half a dozen times before he released me.—I did nothing to tempt him, Montague—absolutely nothing!"
"Except to be nice to him," Pendleton added quietly—"which he isn't able to understand."
"Isn't able to understand in Stephanie Lorraine—with her past!" she said bitterly.
"That is the bounder in him," he explained.