With an inarticulate snort, Mr. Bross turned and fled into the house.
Confusion possessed him, and with it rage: stumbling blindly on the first flight of steps, he clawed the atmosphere with fingers that itched for vengeance.
"I'll get even!" he muttered savagely—"I'll get hunk with that boob if it's the last act of my life!"
Fortunately, the hall was gloomy and at that moment deserted.
On the first landing he checked, clutched the banisters for support, and endeavoured to compose himself—but with less success than he realised.
It was with a suggestion of stealth that he ascended the second flight—with an enforced deliberateness and caution that were wasted. For as he reached the top, the door of the back hall-bedroom opened gently for the space of three inches. Through this aperture were visible a pair of bright eyes, with the curve of a plump and pretty cheek, and an adorable bare arm and shoulder.
"That you, George?" Violet Prim demanded with vivacity.
Reluctantly he stopped and in a throaty monosyllable admitted his identity.
"Well, how'd it go off?"
"Fine!"