“He isn’t?” ejaculated Phil. “What is he?”
“He’s a school-teacher, and I haven’t got a thing but debts.”
Phil received this untoward news as if a flock of angels, ringing joy bells, had just brought him the gladdest tidings in history. After an interlude he said:
“But, why—”
“Because,” said Barbran, burrowing her nose in his coat: “I thought it would be an asset. I thought people would consider it romantic and it would help business. See how much that reporter made of it! Phil! Wh-wh-why are you treating me like a—a—a—dumbbell?”
For he had thrust her away from him at arm’s-length again.
“There’s one other thing between us, Barbran.”
“If there is, it’s your fault. What is it?”
“Harvey Wheelwright,” he said solemnly. “Do you really like that sickening slush-slinger?”
She raised to him eyes in which a righteous hate quivered. “I loathe him. I’ve always loathed him. I despise the very ink he writes with and the paper it’s printed on.”