"Nothing?" Paul had been on his chair-edge.
I shook my head. "Hattie's calm about it—and she really knows the girl."
"Really knows Marcia? That bat-faced old strumpet? The hell she does!"
"Okay," I said. "Okay."
"Who's Gwen?"
"One of her girls. She was down here earlier. She's gone."
He jumped up and came over to the sofa where I sat with the phone. "Fine thing! I thought you said you were here working—not cheating!"
"A slight relapse, say. What of it?"
"Relapse!" His voice was thin and high. His fists were doubled. His face streamed as if he were shoveling in a boiler room. "Sweet guy, you are! Oh—you've got a good brain! Even talent! But all you do is whore around with your brains and your god-damned talent! And yourself! You look at a woman—you just look at her—and you make her feel like a slut! You've got a wife that's too good for a good guy—and a thousand times too good for you! So what? A weekend off—and you louse the place up with a chippy—! Somebody tries to dig a decent, lovely girl out of a bad spot—and you come along and roll your dirty eyes on her—!"