The Fallacy of Romance

Claire was whispering to Milt, "If we can get rid of your dreadful
passenger, I do want you to meet Mr. Saxton. He may be of use to you
some day. He's terribly capable, and really quite nice. Think! He
happened to be out here, and he traced me by telephone--oh, he treats
long-distance 'phoning as I do a hair-pin. He brought down the duckiest
presents--divertissements for dinner, and that knitted robe, and some
real René Bleuzet perfume--I was all out of it---- And after the grime
of the road----"

"Do you really care for things like that, all those awfully expensive
luxuries?" begged Milt.

"Of course I do. Especially after small hotels."

"Then you don't really like adventuring?"

"Oh yes--in its place! For one thing, it makes a clever dinner seem so
good by contrast!"

"Well---- Afraid I don't know much about clever dinners," Milt was
sighing, when he was aware of Jeff Saxton looming down on him,
demanding: "Daggett, would you mind trying to inform your friend that neither Mr.
Boltwood nor I care to invest in his gold-mine? We can't seem to get
that into his head. I don't mind being annoyed myself, but I really feel
I must protect Mr. Boltwood."

"What can I do?"

"My dear sir, since you brought him here----"

It was the potassium cyanide and cracked ice and carpet tacks and TNT
and castor oil in Jeff's "My dear sir" that did it. Milt discovered
himself on his feet, bawling, "I am not your dear sir! Pinky is my
guest, and---- Gee, sorry I lost my temper, Claire, terrible sorry. See
you along the road. Good night. Pink! You take your hat! Git!"