"Then it doesn't matter much whether he's tried or not."
That phase of the subject Whitford did not pursue. He began to feel in his vest pocket for something.
"Of course you understand that we're through with you, Bromfield.
Neither Beatrice nor I care to have anything more to do with you."
"I don't see why," protested Bromfield. "As a man of the world—"
"If you don't see the reason I'm not able to explain it to you." Whitford's fingers found what they were looking for. He fished a ring from his pocket and put it on the desk. "Beatrice asked me to give you this."
"I don't think that's fair. If she wants to throw me over she ought to tell me her reasons herself."
"She's telling them through me. I don't want to be more explicit unless you force me."
"Of course I'm not good enough. I know that. No man's good enough for a good woman. But I'm as good as other fellows. We don't claim to be angels. New York doesn't sprout wings."
"I'm not going to argue this with you. And I'm not going to tell you what I think of you beyond saying that we're through with you. The less said about it the better. Man, don't you see I don't want to have any more talk about it? The engagement was a mistake in the first place. Bee never loved you. Even if you'd been what we thought you, it wouldn't have done. She's lucky to have found out in time."
"Is this a business rupture, too, Mr. Whitford?"