"Your polished and thoughtful inquiry is characteristic of you," she said. "Mary is here, and I want you to come over to dinner."
"I'm not up to it," he said.
"I want you to come."
"I tell you I'm not up to it," he said bluntly.
"And I tell you that you'd better come."
"Better come?" he repeated.
"Yes, better come. More than that, Langly, you'd better behave yourself, or I'll make New York too hot to hold you."
His prominent eyes were expressionless.
"Ah?" he remarked.
"Exactly, my friend. Your race is run. You've done one thing too publicly to squirm out of the consequences. The town has stood for a good deal from you. When that girl at the Frivolity Theatre shot herself, leaving a letter directed to you, the limit of public patience was nearly reached. You had to go abroad, didn't you? Well, you can't go abroad this time. Neither London nor Paris nor Vienna nor Budapest—no, nor St. Petersburg nor even Constantinople would stand you! Your course is finished. If you've an ounce of brains remaining you know that you're done for this time. So go and dress and come over to dinner.... And don't worry; I'll keep away from you after you're married."