“Pity he didn't tell me,” he said bitterly. “I ain't one to force my company where it ain't wanted.”
“I've said to him sometimes,” continued Mrs. Henshaw, “'Why don't you tell Ted Stokes plain that you don't like his company?' but he won't. That ain't his way. He'd sooner talk of you behind your back.”
“What does he say?” inquired Mr. Stokes, coldly ignoring a frantic headshake on the part of his friend.
“Promise me you won't tell him if I tell you,” said Mrs. Henshaw.
Mr. Stokes promised.
“I don't know that I ought to tell you,” said Mrs. Henshaw, reluctantly, “but I get so sick and tired of him coming home and grumbling about you.”
“Go on,” said the waiting Stokes.
Mrs. Henshaw stole a glance at him. “He says you act as if you thought yourself everybody,” she said, softly, “and your everlasting clack, clack, clack, worries him to death.”
“Go on,” said the listener, grimly.
“And he says it's so much trouble to get you to pay for your share of the drinks that he'd sooner pay himself and have done with it.”