"Have an ice, Laurance." advised young Bonneaves. "It'll cool you down."
"I'll have nothin'," Laurance growled, reaching for his coat. "I don't hanker after suppin' with them as I now know is thieves."
At the host's call, the Danish waitress brought in the ices on a tray, while Jim Laurance muffled himself in his coat.
"Where's Aline?" Simpson asked, assuming the privilege of familiarity.
"My mistress?" said the waitress. "She will serve no more. She will not enter."
"But she'll have to," cried Simpson, flushing with anger and obstinacy. "Tell her to run in and serve immediately or I shall come after her and kiss both her cheeks instead of one."
The Danish woman flounced out, and Jarmand involuntarily put his fingers to his fat neck.
"You see," explained Simpson, "it isn't like as if I hadn't paid her for the supper and for occupying her room. And, by the way, this isn't the only room!" He nodded and laughed evilly, adding: "The hubby's on the trails."
Laurance's coat went off his back with a reverse of the motion which was putting it on. The garment flew into one corner, and the owner's voice rang out across the room like the clank of good steel.
"By heaven, Simpson," he roared, "you can't throw one speck of mud on Pierre's wife. You'll eat dirt for it. You're a d–d dago-hearted liar!"