"I'm sure"--Miss Twitterton's voice trembled--"you're the last person that ought to say such a thing to me."
Crutchley's face lowered.
"That's it, is it? Tryin' to make out you been lowerin' yourself by associating with me, eh? All right! You go and hobnob with the gentry. Lord Peter!"
He thrust his hands deep down in his pockets and strode irritably towards the window. His determination to work up a quarrel was so evident that even Miss Twitterton could not mistake it. It could have only one explanation. With fatal archness, she wagged a reproving finger.
"Why, Frank, you silly old thing! I believe you're jealous!"
"Jealous!" He looked at her and began to laugh. It was not a pleasant laugh, though it showed all his teeth. "That's good! That's rich, that is! What's the idea? Startin'
