But Mallory was feeling like a March day. He answered with a sleety chill: "You care more for the dog than you do for me."
"Why shouldn't I?" Marjorie answered with wide eyes, "Snoozleums never would have brought me on a wild goose elopement like this. Heaven knows he didn't want to come."
Mallory repeated the indictment: "You love a dog better than you love your husband."
"My what?" Marjorie laughed, then she spoke with lofty condescension: "Harry Mallory, if you're going to be jealous of that dog, I'll never marry you the longest day I live."
"So you'll let a dog come between us?" he demanded.
"I wouldn't give up Snoozleums for a hundred husbands," she retorted.
"I'm glad to know it in time," Mallory said. "You'd better give me back that wedding ring."
Marjorie's heart stopped at this, but her pride was in arms. She drew herself up, slid the ring from her finger, and held it out as if she scorned it: "With pleasure. Good afternoon, Mr. Mallory."
Mallory took it as if it were the merest trifle, bowed and murmured: "Good afternoon, Miss Newton."
He stalked out and she turned her back on him. A casual witness would have said that they were too indifferent to each other even to feel anger. As a matter of romantic fact, each was on fire with love, and aching madly with regret. Each longed for strength to whirl round with outflung arms of reconciliation, and neither could be so brave. And so they parted, each harking back fiercely for one word of recall from the other. But neither spoke, and Marjorie sat staring at nothing through raining eyes, while Mallory strode into the Men's Room as melancholy as Hamlet with Yorick's skull in his hands.