“Come out of there,” said Wayne dangerously.
“It isn’t because I’m afraid of you,” explained Briggs, “but it’s merely that I don’t choose to present either you or myself to a lot
of pretty girls with the marks of conflict all over our eyes and noses.”
At the words “pretty girls” Wayne’s battle-set features relaxed. He motioned to the Pullman porter to deposit his luggage on the empty platform; the melancholy bell-notes of the locomotive sounded, the train moved slowly forward.
“Pretty girls?” he repeated in a softer voice. “Where are they staying? Of course, under the circumstances a personal encounter is superfluous. Where are they staying?”
“At Guilford’s. I told you so in my telegrams, didn’t I?”
“No, you didn’t. You spoke only of a poet and his eight helpless children.”
“Well, those girls are the eight children,” retorted Briggs sullenly, emerging from the station.
“Do you mean to tell me——”
“Yes, I do. They’re his children, aren’t they—even if they are girls, and pretty.” He offered a mollifying hand; Wayne took it, shook it uncertainly, and fell into step beside his friend. “Eight pretty girls,” he repeated under his breath. “What did you do, Stuyve?”