Miss Sheridan, apparently for mere exclamatory purposes, now reread the
fulmination of the absent partner. She scoffed, she sneered, flouted,
derided, and one understood that she was including both members of the
firm. Then her listener became aware that she had achieved coherence.

"Indeed, yes! Do you know what ought to happen to him? Every unprotected
female in this county ought to pack her trunk and trudge right up to the
Remington place and say, 'Here we are, noble man! We have read your burning
words in which you offer to protect us. Save us from the vote! Let your
home be our sanctuary. That's what you mean if you meant anything but
tommy-rot. Here and now we throw ourselves upon your boasted chivalry.
Where are our rooms, and what time is luncheon served.'"

"Here! Just say that again," called Mr. Evans from across the room. Miss
Sheridan obliged. She elaborated her theme. George should be taken at
his word by every weak flower of womanhood. If women were nothing but
ministering angels, it was "up to" George to give 'em a chance to minister.

So went Miss Sheridan's improvisation and Mr. Evans, suffering the throes
of a mighty inspiration, suddenly found it sweetest music.

When Miss Sheridan subsided, Mr. Evans appeared to have forgotten the cause
of their late encounter. Whistling cheerily he bustled into his own office,
mumbling of matters that had to be "gotten off." For some moments he busied
himself at his desk, then emerged to dictate three business letters to his
late antagonist.

He dictated in a formal and distant manner, pausing in the midst of the
last letter to spell out the word "analysis," which he must have known
would enrage her further. Then, quite casually, he wished to be told if