Charity “went white,” as the saying is. The rain streamed down.
“We 'ain't a room left,” said Skip.
“You've got to have,” said Jim.
“Have to speak to the artshiteck,” said Skip. Then he rubbed his head, trying to get out an idea by massage. “There's the poller. Big lounge there, but not made up. Would you and your wife wish the poller?”
He dragged the “wife” with a tone that nearly got him throttled. But Jim paused. A complicated thought held him. To protest that Charity was not his wife seemed hardly the most reassuring thing to do. He let the word go and ignored Skip's cynical intonation. Jim's knuckles ached to rebuke him, but he had not fought a waiter since his wild young days. And Skip was protected by his infirmity.
Charity was frightened and revolted, abject with remorse for such a disgusting consequence of such a sweet, harmless impulse. She was afraid of Jim's temper. She said:
“Take the parlor by all means.”
“All right,” said Jim.
Skip fumbled about the desk for a big book, and, finding it, opened it and handed Jim a pen.
“Register, please,” said Skip.