Bausch turned the characterization over in his heavy mind. “Pretty,” he said. “Pretty? I do not think—”
“He’s making a fool of you, Mr. Chairman,” broke in Engel, a little, neat, nervous man. He turned on Jeremy. “You insult our club and now you insult us.”
“Apropos of insults,” retorted Jeremy: “what about this document that Mr. Bausch has just read so expressively? Murder seems to be about the only thing that is n’t charged in it. Would you call that a testimonial of regard?”
“Consider the provocation,” said Blasius. “Be square about this thing, Mr. Robson.”
“Give me a chance,” returned the editor promptly. “Don’t begin by holding a gun to my head.”
“The case is blain,” stated Bausch in his heavy accents. “You cannot deny the editorial charching that we made a festivity over the Lusitania.”
“Evidently not.”
“We demand a retragtion of that.”
“On what ground?”
“Because it was an outrache on a high-toned, representative organization, a private—”