“No. Did you expect to find me?” asked the other, with emphasis unmistakable.
“What do you mean?” demanded Mortimer hoarsely. “What the devil do you mean by asking me if I expected to find you here? If I had, I'd not have travelled down to your office to-day to see you; I'd have come here for you. Naturally people suppose that an engaged man is likely to give up this sort of thing.”
Quarrier, motionless, white to the lips, turned his eyes from one to the other.
“It doesn't look very well, does it?” asked Mortimer; and he stood there, smiling, danger written all over him. “It's beginning rather early,” he continued, with a sneer. “Most engaged men with a conscience wait until they're married before they return to the gay and frivolous. But here you are, it seems, handsome, jolly, and irresistible as ever!”
Quarrier looked at Lydia, and his lips moved: “You asked me to come,” he said.
“No; you offered to. I wished to talk to you over the wire, but “—her lip curled, and she shrugged her shoulders—“you seemed to be afraid of something or other.”
“I couldn't talk to you in my own house, with guests in the room.”
“Why not? Did I say anything your fashionable guests might take exception to? Am I likely to do anything of that kind?—you coward!”
Quarrier stood very still, then noiselessly turned and made one step toward the door.
“One moment,” interposed Mortimer blandly. “As long as I travelled down town to see you, and find you here so unexpectedly, I may as well take advantage of this opportunity to regulate a little matter. You don't mind our talking shop for a moment, Lydia? Thank you. It's just a little business matter between Mr. Quarrier and myself—a matter concerning a few shares of stock which I once held in one of his companies, bought at par, and tumbled to ten and—What is the fraction, Quarrier? I forget.”