"Yes," he said, "it's shoot or a suit in these days; you're perfectly right, Mallett. And we'll let it go at that for the present."
He stood a moment, straight, handsome, his clearly stencilled eyebrows knitted, watching Duane. Whatever in the man's face and figure was usually colourless, unaccented, irresolute, disappeared as he glared rigidly at the other.
For there is no resentment like the resentment of the neglectful, no jealousy like the jealousy of the faithless.
"To resume, in plain English," he said, "keep away from my wife, Mallett. You comprehend that, don't you?"
"Perfectly. Now get out!"
Dysart hesitated for the fraction of a second longer, as though perhaps expecting further reply, then turned on his heel and walked out.
Later, while Duane was examining his own costume preparatory to trying it on, Scott Seagrave's spectacled and freckled visage protruded into the room. He knocked as an after-thought.
"Rosalie sent me. She's dressed in all her gimcracks and wants your expert opinion. I've got to go——"
"Where is she?"
"In her room. I'm going out to the hatchery with Kathleen——"