"Not at all," Justin croaked. By the banjo clock on the wall opposite the wardrobe he saw that it was still twenty minutes short of midnight.
"I hoped I'd run into you here at the Ivesons'," Chandler explained. "Marie tells me you were too tired to come."
"That's one word for it," Justin told him. Despite the fact that Chandler, as his wife's uncle and a member of the board of the Ninth National Corporation, held complete power not only over his job but, at least indirectly, over his domestic life, Justin had always been frank, even blunt with him. He had long nursed an idea that this outspokenness with a man used to subservience was one of the reasons he had been able to hold his favor.
But the Bostonian merely grunted and said, "I understand Henri Dubois has been after you for backing."
"That's right," Justin replied.
"Hmmm." Chandler sounded thoughtful. "I suppose a decision now might make or break the man. How do you feel about it, Charles?"
"I'm going to sleep on it," Justin told him.
"That's sound," said Chandler. "I must say I'm beginning to be interested myself. Marie's been talking to me."
"She's dead against him. Oddly enough, for quite different reasons, so is Dubois' own woman, the Forrester female."
"A point to consider, perhaps. I hope I haven't disturbed you, Charles, but I wanted some inkling of how you felt about this matter."