His voice wandered into a difficult silence, as if he had seen this way, too, a chance of implicating himself with Sylvia's brother; but his eyes continued to beg George. They were like the eyes of an animal, caught in a net, beseeching release. Goodhue gave him his hat. He took it but drew away from the other's touch on his arm. "Don't think I'm not all right," he said in a frightened voice. "Took me by surprise, but I'm all right--quite all right. Going home." He glanced at Lambert and again at George, then left the room, pulling at his necktie, Goodhue anxiously at his heels. "What about it?" Lambert asked George sharply. George sat down, still trying to rid himself of the black souvenirs of the encounter. "Don't be a fool. I said nothing about your sister--nothing whatever." He couldn't get rid of Dalrymple's begging eyes, yet why should he spare him at all? "The rest of it," he went on, easily, "is between Dalrymple and me." "I'm not sure," Lambert challenged. He reminded George of the younger Lambert who had advanced with a whip in his hand. "See here," he said. "You can't make me talk about anything I don't care to. I've told you I didn't mention your sister. I couldn't to that fellow." Lambert spread his hands. "What is there about you and Sylvia--ever since that day? I believe you, but I tried to give you a licking for her sake once, and I'd do it again." George laughed pleasantly. "You make me feel young." Clearly Lambert meant to warn him, for he went on, still aggressive: "I care more for her than anybody in the world." The laughter left George's face. "Anybody?" Lambert was self-conscious now. "Just about. See here. What are you driving at?" George yawned. "I must wash up. I've a lot of work to do." "I'd like to know what went on here," Lambert said. "Why don't you ask Dalrymple, then?" "Dolly isn't all bad," Lambert offered as he left. "He's been my friend a good many years." "Then by all means keep him," George answered, "and keep him to yourself; but when he comes around hang on to the ink pots." XIX His apparent good humour didn't survive the closing of the door. His dislike of Dalrymple fattened on his memory of the incident. It had left a sting. He hadn't stopped the man in time. Selling herself! Was she? She appeared to his mind, no longer intolerant, rather with an air of shame-faced apology for all the world. That was what hurt. He hadn't stopped Dalrymple in time. But there was no sale yet, nothing whatever, except an engagement which, after a year, showed no symptoms of fruition. Blodgett was aware of it, and couldn't hide his anxiety. Evidently he wanted to talk about it, did talk about it to George when he met him in the hall not long after Dalrymple's visit. "Why don't you ever run down to Oakmont with Lambert?" he asked.