"You prefer a man who is slippery both inside and out?" questioned Stuyvesant.
"They get along better with the world," said John.
"Oh, no," said Stuyvesant. "They get along better with the empties. A few people, those that count, look for something on the inside."
John suddenly leaned well across the table. "Look here, Stuyv," he said, "is this a bluff? Damned if I understand you! I was lying in the hammock on the porch last summer when Marjory and Cecilia came from the courts. They didn't see me, and I thought I'd hear about some beau and have a joke. I heard Marjory say that you said the old man should be kept in the garage. Not just those words, but smooth—Marjory's way. I never saw Celie so mad! She turned white as——"
"Did she say that?" shouted Stuyvesant.
"Lord, Stuyv!" said John, "everybody's lookin' at you. Yes, of course she said that. What's the matter with you?"
"What else did she say?" asked Stuyvesant. He was somewhat breathless, but for the sake of John more restrained.
"Well, Marjory told Cecilia what a hell of a case you had on her, talking about her eyes, and all that kind of stuff. Trust girls—they blab everything. Gimme the salt, will you?"
Stuyvesant shoved his glass of water toward John. "The salt, man!" said John, and then as he surveyed Stuyvesant with sad eyes, he added, "I hope it isn't catching."
"You go telephone her that we're coming out," said Stuyvesant.