"Well ..." he said grudgingly, in his irritation. "But don't let it happen again."
"There's no chance of that," the girl retorted with a brief-lived flash of spirit. "Good night."
"Good night," he returned.
She was gone before he recovered; and then compunction smote him, and he followed her as far as the hallway.
In the half-light of the flickering gas-jet, he saw her only as a shadow slowly mounting the staircase. And a glance toward the front door discovered indistinct shapes of lodgers on the stoop.
"Miss Thursday!" he called in a guarded voice.
She heard, hesitated a single instant, then with quickened steps resumed the ascent.
He called once again, but she refused to listen, and he returned to his study in a state of insensate rage; which, however, had this time himself for its sole object—Joan's transgression quite lost sight of in remorse for his brutality. He could not remember ever having spoken to any woman in such wise: no man had any right to speak to any woman in such a manner, for any cause, however exasperating.
Tremendously disgusted with himself, and ashamed, he tramped the floor so long, trying to quiet his conscience, and made so many futile attempts to apologize to the girl by word of hand—one and all either too abject or too constrained—that he had lost his train before he produced the lame and halting effort with which he was at length fain to be content.
A later train was bearing him under the East River to Long Island when Joan read his message.