Compton pulled Harry back to his chair.
“Keep your shirt on, d’you hear me,” he said. “If you start a scrap here you won’t have a chance—every bouncer ’n’ waiter in the place’ll be right on top of you. I’ve seen them in action before, and believe me, they work just like a machine.”
“Well, I can get in a coupla good cracks at him before they throw me out,” Harry persisted. “I want to show that dirty shine where he gets off at, makin’ a play for a sister uh mine!”
“You won’t show him this way,” Compton retorted. “You’ll land in the hospital, and you’ll land there quick, too. This gang down here don’t like a white man’s looks anyway, and they’ll give you the leather, just for good luck. Come on, let’s all clear outa here. You can lay for him to-morrow night, if you want to, ’r else give your sister a good bawling out when you get her home, an’ make her stay away from him.”
“Well, they can’t do nothin’ ’f I go over an’ bawl her out now,” Harry said, with a drunken stubbornness.
“Aw, keep your head, Harry, we don’t want to get the girl-friends here into no trouble,” Compton replied. “Come on, let’s beat it, Harry.”
The women added their persuasions, and Harry finally gave a reluctant assent. He departed with his friends, after vowing to settle the matter during the next few days.
Blanche and Starling continued their entranced capers until the closing hour, and when they rode to her home, they were steeped in a tired and lazy fondness, with their arms around each other and their heads close together. The apparitions and doubts had disappeared from their situation, as far as they were concerned, and nothing remained but a deliciously overheated and rumpled nearness to each other. They arranged to meet on the following Saturday night, and exchanged several farewell kisses, in the cab, before they reluctantly parted.
Blanche slept until noon, since the day was a holiday—Memorial Day—and when she awoke, the other Palmers were eating a late breakfast around the kitchen table. As she entered the kitchen, in her kimono, the family turned and surveyed her, each bearing a frown on his face. Taken aback, and suddenly prodded by an instinctive fear, Blanche advanced slowly toward the table. How could they know anything about Starling—nonsense. They were probably “sore” at her for some other reasons.
After she had seated herself at the table, the bombardment commenced.