" "Are you friendly toward him?" asked McClintock, passing a fine cigar across the table. It was ended. ‘But if you must fight so furiously, I don’t see how I can promise not to do it again. 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. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. Ann Veronica’s experiences of men had been among more stable types—Teddy, who was always absurd; her father, who was always authoritative and sentimental; Manning, who was always Manning. He seldom spoke, and drank with a persistence that was sinister. Quilt, meanwhile, came down, examined the door, and finding it unfastened, locked it with a bitter imprecation on his brother-janizary's carelessness. The man was thick set, with a bright roving eye.
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