"I'm sorry." He stood up, stiff and straight. "You're quite right—I lost my head!" For the shrewder side of his nature swung him back once more into safe balance. He switched on the electric light and glanced openly at the clock.
"I'm afraid, too, I'm keeping you up. I'd no idea it was so late."
His voice was frigidly polite, a mask to hide his deep anger. For there she stood, with Jill's letter—Jill's of all people on earth!—that note of hers yet unread, caught up at the Club before he started.
He held out his hand for it.
Silently she gave it up. For once the woman in her quailed before the wrath in his blue eyes.
"Thank you." He placed it in his pocket and smiled, his young face still hard.
"Now we're quits ... eh! Fantine."
She began to realize her mistake.
"Quits?" she pouted. With one hand she smoothed the tumbled laces about her. "I think ... that you're unkind, Pierrot."
To his dismay she began to cry.