"Sunday night. I stopped in Atlanta a few hours and came on through. What a fine old town Atlanta is; don't you think so?"
"I certainly do not, Mr. Ardmore. It's so dreadfully northernized."
When she said "no'thenized" her intonation gave the word a fine cutting edge.
"I suppose, Mr. Ardmore, that you saw papa at the luncheon at the Pharos Club in New Orleans?"
"Why, yes, Miss Dangerfield. It was there I met the governor!"
"Are you sure it was there, Mr. Ardmore?"
"Why, I think that was the place. I don't know my New Orleans as I should, but—"
Ardmore was suddenly conscious that Miss Dangerfield had risen and that she stood before him, with her fair face the least bit flushed, her blue eyes alight with anger, and that the hands at her sides were clenched nervously.
"My father was not at luncheon at the Pharos Club, Mr. Ardmore. You never saw my father in your life. I know why it is you came here, and if you are not out of that door in one second I shall call the servants and have them throw you out."