"Say, though," he murmured, "Betty'll give me 'what for' for drubbing you. She actually took your side--said--oh, never mind--tried to make me think of her just as if she was any old Mamie--the stenog--tried to prune out personal feeling." "By Jove," he ruminated, "that girl's a corker!" He raised forgiving eyes from his contemplation of the rug. "Well, old man, blow me to a Scotch and soda, and I'll be going. Dinged if it wouldn't have broken me all up to have busted with you, even if you are a box of prunes. Shake." George shook, but he was far from happy. What he had gained in peace of mind he had lost in self-conceit. His resentment against the pinch of circumstance was deepening to cancerous vindictiveness. As Pennington left with a cheery good-by and a final half-cynical word of advice "to get onto himself" George mounted the stairs slowly and came face to face with Genevieve, obviously in wait for him. "What happened?" she inquired, with an anxious glance at his corrugated brow. George did not feel in a mood to describe his retreat, if not defeat. "Oh, nothing. We had a highball. I think I made him--well--it's all right." "There, I knew Betty'd make him see reason," she smiled. "I'm awfully glad. I've a real respect for Penny's judgment after all, you know." "Meaning, you have your doubts about mine." "No, meaning only just what I said--_just_ that. By the way, George, I wish you'd take time to look into Alys' real estate. Somebody ought to, and if you're really representing her----" "Oh, good heavens!" he exclaimed impatiently, angered by her swift transition from his own to another's affairs. "I can't! I simply can't! Haven't you any conception of how busy I am?" "I know, dear; I _do_ know. But something must be done. The Health Department," she explained, "has sent in complaint after complaint, and Miss Eliot simply won't handle the property unless she's allowed to spend a lot setting things to rights. Alys says it's absurd; none of the other property owners out there are doing anything, and _she_ won't. So, nobody's looking after it, and somebody should." "Who told you all this?" he demanded. "Miss E. Eliot, I suppose." His wife nodded. "And she's right," she added. "Well, perhaps she is," he allowed. "I'll get Alien to act as her agent again. He's in with all the politicians; he ought to be able to stall off the department." The words slipped out before he realized their import, but at Genevieve's wide stare of amazement he flushed crimson. "I mean--lots of these complaints are really mere red tape; some self-important employee is trying to look busy. A little investigation usually puts that straight." "Of course," she acquiesced, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "That happens, too, but Miss Eliot says that the conditions out there are really dreadful." "I'll talk to Allen," said George with an affectation of easy dismissal of the subject.