He stood up and put on her coat and their eyes were almost level, looking right into each other's.
"An explanation? You won't get it," he whispered back.
"It's due to me. You're a rotter."
"There's nothing due to you," he replied with a sudden air of relief at the discovery.
An abounding idea of happiness to come filled him as he moved beside Roselle down the crowded restaurant. As they went he said: "It's all over; I'm a fool no longer. You understand there's only one woman in the world for me and that's my wife. And since she has some use for me again ... Good-bye!"
He held out his hand, but she refused it angrily. She stood, biting her lip, tapping her foot, her head averted, upon the kerb; her attitude of pique was amusingly familiar to him; often it had gained for her the gratification of some petulant desire; but now all that he wanted was to hurry back to the table they had left.
There were real things; and trash; well defined.
"Taxi!" he said in a ringing voice to the commissionaire.
"Where are you going, Roselle?"
"Home," she answered venomously.