patently forced.

"Either you or the Bakers have got to get out of this house." The words
were said quietly enough, but the determination behind them was plain.
Faxon realised that, and tried equivocation.

"Why?"

"Because I won't have this sort of thing going on in my house."

"Your house?" There was just the faintest suggestion of an emphasis upon
the pronoun.

"My house," repeated Roger coldly. "I saw you and Della last night. And
I know you met in town to-day. If she wants to make that kind of an ass
of herself outside, that's her business. But she can't do it here. John
Baker's my friend."

For an instant Faxon's jaw was set with curled lips, and his eyes
blazed. Then the whole expression changed, and he shrugged his shoulders
and laughed--though not very easily.

"Why, Roger old boy, you're all wrong. You're quite mistaken about Della
Baker. She and I are good friends--nothing more. She's an unhappy little
woman, that's all. She--oh well, she's taken my friendship for something
more. She...."

"Let's not discuss her."

"As you like. But you've got to get things straight. Just because I was
decent to her when her husband wasn't, and she fancied me in love with
her, doesn't make me the sort of chap you seem to think me, does it?"

Roger was silent. Faxon assumed that the silence meant an acceptance of
his explanation, and his apparent success made him careless. His voice
softened and his manner became almost feline. He put his hand on the
other's shoulder.

"You've got it all dead wrong, my boy. Della's spoiled the party for me.
She's stuck to me like a barnacle. I didn't come out here for her. I
wanted to see Judith. Why...."

Roger seemed suddenly to grow a head taller. His eyes flamed like banked
fires, and his nostrils dilated. His fists clenched fiercely. "Cut
that--cut it, I tell you," he ground thickly through his set teeth.
"Don't you ever speak of my sister like that. By God, I won't stand it,
you hear." His voice was low but clear and vibrant with suppressed
passion.

Faxon recoiled, and his suavity left him. "Your sister is of age, I
believe," he said with a steely evenness. "She needs no protector."

"You keep away, I tell you. You keep away." Roger's breath came shortly,
and his fists clenched and unclenched themselves spasmodically.

"If I'm not good enough to look at your sister, how about you--and Molly
Wolcott? I can't see that little Vera's any better than Della Baker."

"Cut