As one bystander remarked in the
classic phraseology of the street:
"Wagstaff's a bear!"
The brokers concerned might consider this to have a double meaning.
Hazel dropped the paper, mortified and wrathful. The city jail seemed
the very Pit itself to her. And the lurid publicity, the lifted
eyebrows of her friends, maddened her in prospect. Plain street
brawling, such as one might expect from a cabman or a taxi mahout, not
from a man like her husband. She involuntarily assigned the blame to
him. Not for the cause--the cause was of no importance whatever to
her--but for the act itself. Their best friends! She could hardly
realize it. Jimmie Brooks, jovial Jimmie, with a broken nose and
sundry bruises! And Paul Lorimer, distinguished Paul, who had the
courtly bearing which was the despair of his fellows, and the manner of
a dozen generations of culture wherewith to charm the women of his
acquaintance. He with a black eye and a split lip! So the paper
stated. It was vulgar. Brutal! The act of a cave man.
She was on the verge of tears.
And just at that moment the door opened, and in walked Bill.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE NOTE DISCORDANT
Bill had divested himself of the scowl.
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