“So now you know, John,” she said. “Well, what are you going to do about it?”
Self-control was second nature with John Bannister. For years he had cultivated it as a commercial asset. Often a fortune had depended on his mastery of his emotions. Now, in an instant, he had himself under control once more. His face resumed its normal expression of cold impassiveness. Only his mouth twitched a little.
“Well?” asked Mrs. Porter.
“Take her away,” he said quietly. “Take her out of here. Let her go to him. I have done with her.”
“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Porter, and left the room.
Chapter VII.
Sufficient Unto Themselves
Some months after John Bannister had spoken his ultimatum in the library two drought-stricken men met on the Rialto. It was a close June evening, full of thirst.
“I could do with a drink,” said the first man. “Several.”
“My tongue is black clear down to the roots,” said the second.
“Let’s go up to Kirk Winfield’s,” proposed the first man, inspired.