"By Jove," he ruminated, "that girl's a corker!"
He raised forgiving eyes from his contemplation of the rug.
"Well, old man, blow me to a Scotch and soda, and I'll be going. Dinged if it wouldn't have broken me all up to have busted with you, even if you are a box of prunes. Shake."
George shook, but he was far from happy. What he had gained in peace of mind he had lost in self-conceit. His resentment against the pinch of circumstance was deepening to cancerous vindictiveness.
As Pennington left with a cheery good-by and a final half-cynical word of advice "to get onto himself" George mounted the stairs slowly and came face to face with Geneviève, obviously in wait for him.
"What happened?" she inquired, with an anxious glance at his corrugated brow.
George did not feel in a mood to describe his retreat, if not defeat.
"Oh, nothing. We had a highball. I think I made him—well—it's all right."
"There, I knew Betty'd make him see reason," she smiled. "I'm awfully glad. I've a real respect for Penny's judgment after all, you know."
"Meaning, you have your doubts about mine."