“I mean that the human man hasn’t got much to say about falling in or out of love. The women take care of all that for him. Look at your Miss Landis—yours as was.... You don’t mind my buttin’ in?”
“Go on,” said Staff grimly.
“Anybody with half an eye, always excepting you, could see she’d made up her mind to hook that Arkroyd pinhead on account of his money. She was just waiting for a fair chance to give you the office—preferably, of course, after she’d nailed that play of yours.”
“Well,” said Staff, “she’s lost that, too.”
“Serves you both right.”
There was a pause wherein Staff sought to fathom the meaning of this last utterance of Mr. Iff’s.
“I take it,” resumed the latter with a sidelong look—“pardon a father’s feelings of delicacy—I take it, you’re meaning Nelly?”
“How did you guess that?” demanded Staff, startled.
“Right, eh?”
“Yes—no—I don’t know—”