"Meaning me?" snapped George.
"Don't dare to quibble. Look me in the eye."
There was a third degree fatality about the usually debonair Penny that exacted obedience. George unwillingly looked him in the eye, and had a ghastly feeling of having his suddenly realized smallness X-rayed.
"You know damned well you acted like a cad," Penny continued, "and I want to know, for all our sakes, if you're man enough to own it?"
George's fundamental honesty mastered him. Anger died from his eyes. His clenched hands relaxed and began an unconscious and nervous exploration for a cigarette.
"Since you put it that way," he said, "and it happens that my conscience agrees with you—I'll go you. I was a cad, and I'll tell Betty so. Confound it!" he growled, "I don't know what's come over me these days. I've got to get a grip on myself."
"You bet you have," said Penny, hauling his fists from his trousers as if with an effort. Then he grinned. "Betty said you would."
George's eyes darkened.
"And I'll tell you now," Penny went on, "since you've turned out at least half-decent, Betty'll let you off that apology thing. She wasn't the one who was exacting it—not she. I couldn't stand for your highfalutin excuses for being—well, never mind—we all get our off days. But don't you get off again like that if——" Penny hesitated. "If you want me for a partner," which seemed the obvious conclusion, was tame. "If you want to hang on to any one's respect," he finished.
"Say, though," he murmured, "Betty'll give me 'what for' for drubbing you. She actually took your side—said—oh, never mind—tried to make me think of her just as if she was any old Mamie—the stenog—tried to prune out personal feeling."