Between Friends

"Because we went to his studio," said Guilder. "Now about letting

the contracts--"

"Were you at Drene's studio?"

"Yes. He's doing the groups for the new opera for us."

Quair, watching Graylock, was seized with a malicious impulse: "Neat little skirt he has up there--that White girl," he remarked,

seating himself on Graylock's polished table.

A dull flush stained Graylock's cheekbones, and his keen eyes turned

on Quair. The latter lighted a cigarette, expelled the smoke in two

thin streams from his abnormally narrow nostrils.

"Some skirt," he repeated. "And it looks as though old Drene had

her number--"

Guilder's level voice interrupted: "The contracts are ready to be--"

But Graylock, not heeding, and perhaps not hearing, and looking all

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

yawn.

He stepped down to the floor from his perch on the table, stretched

his arms, looking affably all the while at Graylock, who had never

moved a muscle.

"I believe you had a run-in with that Cecile girl once, didn't you,

Graylock? Like the rest of us, eh? Oh, well--my hat off to old Drene

if he wins out. I hold no malice. After all, Graylock, what's a

woman between friends?"