"Fool!" he cried, "do you think I wouldn't have secured you before this if I hadn't some motive for my forbearance?" "And that motive is fear," replied Jack contemptuously. The rejection caught him like a slap in the face. But between us, we'll have him writing books some day. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to. He looked melancholy enough, it is true. It was she who felt guilty as he showed her their bedroom, smelling her perfume, ingesting their psychic leftovers. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica.
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