"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 o
