"It is." Mr. Shayne perceived that Hugo was angry. "Now, don't get
sentimental. Keep your eye on the ball. I--" He did not finish, because
Mrs. Shayne came into the room. Hugo stared at him fixedly, his face
livid, for several seconds before he was conscious of her. Even then it
was only a partial consciousness.
She was stuffed into a tight, bright dress. She was holding out her
hand, holding his hand, holding his hand too long. There was mascara
around her eyes and they dilated and blinked in a foolish and
flirtatious way; her voice was syrup. She was taking a cocktail with the
other hand--maybe if he gave her hand a real squeeze, she would let go.
A tall, sallow young man had come in behind her; he was Mr. Jerome
Leonardo Bateau, a perfect dear. Mrs. Shayne was still holding his hand
and murmuring; Mr. Shayne was patting his shoulder; Mr. Bateau was
staring with haughty and jealous eyes. Hugo excused himself.
In the hall he asked for Mr. Shayne's secretary. He collected himself in
a few frigid sentences. "Please tell Mr. Shayne I am very grateful. I
wish to transfer my entire fortune to my parents in Indian Creek,
Colorado. The name is Abednego Danner. Make all arrangements."
A faint "But--" followed him futilely through the door. In the space of
a block he had cut a pace that set other pedestrians gaping to a fast
walk.