attempt any explanation. "No," he said; "we'll play it out here."
"We will?" Bella echoed him. "Indeed! We will?" Now the emphasis was sharply on the first word. "What's going to keep me?"
"You're my wife," he replied simply; "we have a child."
"Times have changed, Snow," Bowman interrupted. "You ought to read the papers. This is ladies' day. The old harem stuff don't go no longer. They are emancipated."
"Lemuel," Doret insisted, a narrowed hard gaze on the other man; "Lemuel Doret."
"He thinks nobody'll remember," his wife explained. "Lem's redeemed."
"Your name's what you say," Bowman agreed, "but remember this—you can't throw any scare into me. I'm no Fauntleroy, neither. Behave."
The anger seethed again beneath Lemuel's restraint. It began to be particular, personal, focused on Bowman; and joined to it was a petty dislike for the details of the man's appearance, the jaunty bearing and conspicuous necktie, the gloss of youth over the unmistakable signs of degeneration, the fatty pouches of his eyes and loose throat.
"I wouldn't bother with scaring you," he told him. "Why should I? You've got no kick. I took you in, didn't I? And all I said was my name. Snow Doret's dead; he died in prison; and this Lemuel's all different"
"I've heard about that too," Bowman returned; "but somehow I don't take stock in these miracles."
