It's queer about men, the way they stand up for each other. Henry knew as well as he knew anything that most of the girls we both knew were crazy about Russell. And if he cared for me—and the way he acted made me suspicious—he had a good chance to throw Russell into the discard that night. But he didn't. I knew well enough he wouldn't.
"That's perfect idiocy," he said sternly. "Society is organised along certain lines, and maybe if you and I had anything to do with it we'd change things. But there is no commandment or social law or anything else against a man having a married woman for a friend."
"Friend!"
"Exactly—friend."
"I don't care to have anything to do with him."
"You needn't, of course. But you owe it to Russell to give him a chance to set things straight. Any how he and Mrs. Warrington are not seeing each other much any more. It's off."
"The very fact that you say it is 'off' shows that it was once 'on.'"
He waved his hands in perfect despair. If I'd rehearsed him he couldn't have picked up his cues any better.
"I'm going to tell him," he said. "It's ridiculous. It's—it's libellous."
"I don't want him coming here explaining. I am not even interested."