"I'm glad to see you, Clydesdale," said Desboro pleasantly, and took that bulky gentleman's outstretched hand, who mumbled something incoherent; but the fixed grin remained. And that was the discomforting—yes, the dismaying—characteristic of the man—his grin never seemed to be affected by his emotions.
Mrs. Quant bobbed away upstairs, piloting Daisy and Elena. Clydesdale followed Desboro to the library—the same room where he had discovered his wife that evening, and had learned in what esteem she held the law that bound her to him. Both men thought of it now—could not avoid remembering it. Also, by accident, they were seated very nearly as they had been seated that night, Clydesdale filling the armchair with his massive figure, Desboro sitting on the edge of the table, one foot resting on the floor.
Farris brought whiskey; both men shook their heads.
"Will you have a cigar, Clydesdale?" asked the younger man.
"Thanks."
They smoked in silence for a few moments, then:
"I'm glad you came," said Desboro simply.
"Yes. Men don't usually raise that sort of hell with each other unless a woman starts it."
"Don't talk that way about your wife," said Desboro sharply.