The patron, a short and dark-faced young man, drew back, lifted his shoulders, sighed noisily, and uttered an oath. It was not a very gross imprecation—he recognized that he was talking to a lady, and the rather suave way in which he swore almost robbed the utterance of offence.
"Here!" called Paul. "How dare you use language to a lady?"
"Is that so?" breathed the patron, turning.
Paul Manley narrowed his eyes and looked very bleakly at the low-set young man. "You heard me," he said.
"Wait a minute, lady," said the patron, waving a hand behind him as he lurched toward Paul. "Just wait a minute. Listen, fellow, what are you butting in for? Do you want a good smack in the nose?"
"Well, that's no way to talk to a girl," said Paul, weakening.
"Then I'll talk to you the same way!" He crowded up against Paul and shoved him back against the wall of the foyer. "Come on, you big cake-eater, and put up your hands! So you're working with her, are you?"
"Knock the big stiff out, Jimmy!" yelled a comrade joyfully.
"She's nothing to me," mumbled Paul, his bluff caving completely. "On the level, she isn't! Don't hit me. I didn't mean anything—honest, I didn't!"
"You're a liar," snarled Jimmy, roused to fury by the prospect of an easy victory. With sound military instinct he swung his fist for Paul's jaw, leaping forward and pivoting with the blow.