“Wasn't going to stand for it any longer,” he said heatedly. “A fellow's wife goes and lets him down... ruins his show by going off and playing in another show... why shouldn't I smash her things? Why should I stand for that sort of treatment? Why should I?”
“Well, you haven't,” said Sally, “so there's no need to discuss it. You seem to have acted in a thoroughly manly and independent way.”
“That's it. Manly independent.” He waggled his finger impressively. “Don't care what she says,” he continued. “Don't care if she never comes back. That woman...”
Sally was not prepared to embark with him upon a discussion of the absent Elsa. Already the amusing aspect of the affair had begun to fade, and her hilarity was giving way to a tired distaste for the sordidness of the whole business. She had become aware that she could not endure the society of Gerald Foster much longer. She got up and spoke decidedly.
“And now,” she said, “I'm going to tidy up.”
Gerald had other views.
“No,” he said with sudden solemnity. “No! Nothing of the kind. Leave it for her to find. Leave it as it is.”
“Don't be silly. All this has got to be cleaned up. I'll do it. You go and sit in my apartment. I'll come and tell you when you can come back.”
“No!” said Gerald, wagging his head.
Sally stamped her foot among the crackling ruins. Quite suddenly the sight of him had become intolerable.