“It was a great evening,” said Morris.
“Um. How did you get on with my sister?”
“All right, I hope. She asked me to call. I liked her particularly.”
“That’s good. But for heaven’s sake don’t call on Sunday afternoons, when she sleeps; and don’t ask her how she likes things. She likes most things, but it bores her to be asked. She has a lot of sense,—do you understand? And if she takes a fancy to you, she’ll do a lot for you.”
Leighton laughed. “Don’t embarrass me that way. I can’t work two people at once in the same family,—and I’m working you.”
“Oh, you are, are you? Bah! That whisky has a green streak in it somewhere.”
He set down his glass and put the tips of his fingers together, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair. Then with sudden energy he roared:
“I don’t see why you don’t like her.”
“Mrs. Forrest? Of course I like her. I just said so.”
“I heard you. I’m not talking about Mrs. Forrest. Why weren’t you decent to my niece? I brought her here so that you could get acquainted with her. I was fool enough to think you had some sense—some social instinct, some idea of good manners, but you acted like a perfect damned clam.”