"Well," Essie Scofield commanded, "say something. You look as black as
an Egyptian. What'll my friends think of you? I suppose it doesn't
matter any more what it is to me; but you might play at being polite."

"Don't chip at a man like that," Myrtilla advised. "Mr. Penny has a
right to talk or not." She smiled more warmly at him, and he saw that
she had had too much champagne. The room reeked with the thin, acrid
odour of the wine, and a sickly perfume of vanilla essence. Essie, as
usual, had a glass of her favourite drink--orange juice and French
brandy--on the floor beside her, the brandy bottle and fresh oranges
conveniently near. His repulsion for her deepened until it seemed as if
actual fingers were compressing his throat, stopping his breath. He
wondered suddenly how far he was responsible for her possible
degeneration. But he had not been the first; her admission of that fact
had in the beginning attracted him to an uncommon frankness in her
peculiar make-up. He was willing to assume his fault, to pay for it,
whatever payment was possible, and escape.... Not only from her, but
from all that she embodied, from himself--what he had been--as much as
anything else.

"You are an Ironmaster," Mr. Babb finally announced; "in fact, one of
our greatest manufacturers. Now, Mr. Penny, what is your personal
opinion of engine as against the public coach? Will the railroad survive
the experimental stage, and are such gentlemen as yourself behind it?"

"I saw in the _Ledger_ some days back," Daniel Culser added, "that your
arm had been broken travelling by steam."

"One had nothing to do with the other," Jasper stated tersely, ignoring