the time at Quair, said slowly:

"Drene isn't that kind. . . . Is he?"

"Our kind, you mean?" inquired Quair, with a malice so buried under
flippancy that the deliberate effrontery passed for it with
Graylock. Which amused Quair for a moment, but the satisfaction was
not sufficient. He desired that Graylock should feel the gaff.

"Drene," he said, "is one of those fussers who jellify when hurled
on their necks--the kind that ask that kind of girl to marry them
after she's turned down everything else they suggest."

Graylock's square jaw tightened and his steady eyes seemed to grow
even paler; but Quair, as though perfectly unconscious of this man's
record with the wife of his closest friend, and of the rumors which
connected him so seriously with Cecile White, swung his leg
unconcernedly, where it dangled over the table's edge, and smiled
frankly and knowingly upon Graylock:

"There's always somebody to marry that sort of girl; all mush isn't
on the breakfast table. When you and I are ready to quit, Graylock,
Providence has created a species of man who settles our bills."

He threw back his head, inhaled the smoke of his cigarette, sent two
thin streams through his nose.

"Maybe Drene may marry her himself. But--I don't believe he'll have
to. . . . Now, about those contracts--" he affected a yawn, "--go on
and tell him, Guilder," he added, his words distorted by another