The Worm caught up a chair, swung it over his head and cried, in deadly earnest, “You two get up or I'll smash both your heads!”
They glared at each other for a moment. Then Zanin managed to catch enough breath to say—
“But the man's insane!”
Peter gulped. “I am not insane! Nothing of the kind!”
“Get up,” commanded the Worm.
Very slowly, eying each other, they obeyed. Zanin brushed off his clothes as well as he could with his hands; then, for the first time conscious of the blood on his face, mopped at it with his handkerchief. Peter went off under the low-hanging center chandelier and examined with a pained expression, his ruined coat.
There were steps and voices on the stairs. She of the big spectacles appeared in the doorway.
“I beg your pardon,” observed Peter with breathless formality, “but have you got a pin?”
She stared at him; then at Zanin, finally at the Worm.
“There's a gentleman up-stairs,” she said mechanically in a lifeless voice.