"Never mind all that," Delancy interrupted. "It doesn't matter what you wore, or whether you wore anything, or not."
"Uncle Jim," Cicily cried, horrified. On this occasion, the emotion in her voice was wholly genuine.
But Delancy was in a combative mood, and eager to get on with the fight toward which he had been guided involuntarily by the whispered instructions of his niece.
"Morton," he inquired briskly, "have you read those recent decisions of Bischoff's on unfair contracts?" Then, as the other shook his head in sullen negation, the old gentleman went on complacently: "Well, I have—every word! Incidentally, the last one was against myself, so, naturally, I took a rather keen interest. Especially, as the Court of Appeals has just sustained it.... It happens, therefore, that I know what I'm talking about."
"If it's fight you want, you'll get it—more than you want, I fancy," Morton growled. "We'll put the price down to nine cents, and break you."
"You might as well put your price down to eight cents, while you're about it," Delancy retorted, with a chuckle. "You see, your price won't really matter a particle to us, since we have a fair—notice, please, that I said fair—contract at fifteen cents for five years, with a privilege of renewal at the same terms. Oh, yes, put your price down to eight cents, by all means!"
Carrington's face turned purple, as he heard the fleering announcement of his rival's success, and Morton betrayed signs of a consuming anxiety.
"Have you such a contract?" he questioned, more mildly than he had spoken hitherto.
Delancy turned to face Hamilton, and put the question bluntly.
"Have we, Charles?" There was no reply forthcoming from the distracted young man, only a burst of sardonic laughter. It seemed to him clear that everyone had gone mad together. Quickly, then, the old gentleman directed the question to his niece. "Have we, Mrs. Partner?"