anger. Renny looked very strange, he thought, white as a ghost, with that aghast expression.
Renny was staring as though he could not believe that Finch had kicked Merlin. Then his mouth set. He laid down his pipe, and in a stride was on him. He shook him as a terrier a rat, and then threw him on to a bench, saying: "If I thought you knew what you were doing, I'd flay you." He bent and put his hand on the dog's side, and looked reassuringly into his eyes.
Finch's eyes were on Renny's hand, that hard, strong hand that moved with such machinelike swiftness and surety. He sprawled on the bench, his back against the wall, filled with misery, anger, and self-loathing.
Wakefield remarked from his perch: "Usually I'm not on hand when there's a row." No one heard him.
"Now," said Renny, taking up his pipe again, "I want you to tell me where you were last night."
"In town," mumbled Finch, brokenly.
"Where? You certainly weren't at Mrs. St. John's."
"I had dinner there."
"Yes?"
He wished Renny's eyes were not so fiercely, so mercilessly, questioning. It made it hard for him to think clearly, to put himself in a decent light if possible. Yet, what use in trying when he had kicked Merlin! If only Piers weren't there, it would be easier to make a clean breast of it!
Piers was again rubbing Merlin, but he never took his bright blue eyes from Finch's face, and he never took the small sneering grin from his lips.
"Well," Finch's voice was still more broken, "there's this orchestra I belong to. I've never told you about that. But there is no harm in it really."
"A harmless bird, this!" interjected Piers.
"An orchestra! What sort of orchestra?"
"Oh, just a little one a few of us got up, so we could make a little money. A banjo, two mandolins, a flute, and I—played the piano."
"God, what an orchestra!" exclaimed Piers, standing up and drying his arms.
