"Just what Lorraine should have done," Murchison replied. "It's an infernal shame that our wives and daughters should be subjected to such effrontery. The woman has about as much idea of decency as a professional of the street--to come still warm from Amherst's arms and flaunt herself before them all. I should have thought the little shame she has left would have held her from this last atrocity." "She's a mighty good looker all right!" the other remarked. "I don't blame Amherst--not in the least." "Sure--she's a screamer--the tall, willowy sort--Kipling's vampire kind, you know the style?" Porshinger laughed. "I wonder who will be the next one. I should not much mind taking a flyer at her myself." Pendleton pushed back his chair sharply and got up. "Come along," he said to Burgoyne. "I may need your help." He drew out his gloves and crossed the piazza to the two men. "Well, you have the requisite amount in your clothes," Murchison was saying. "But I fancy you'll have to move fast if you want to stand any chance." "Why?" "Because she has----" The rest of the remark was cut short by Pendleton's gloves falling with a snap across Porshinger's mouth. "What the devil!" cried he, sitting up. Crack! Again the gloves came down, and a button marked the skin of the cheek till the blood oozed out. "I don't like the cut of your coat, Mr. Porshinger!" said Pendleton. "And just because I don't like it I'm going to give you a thrashing. Stand up and defend yourself. I don't want to hit even a cur when he's down." "What in hell do you mean?" Porshinger shouted. "I've got no quarrel with you, Pendleton! What in hell do I care whether you like the cut of my coat or not--I'm no tailor." "Aren't you? I thought you were--I apologize to the tailors," said Pendleton easily. "Put up your hands, you dirty scoundrel, or haven't you a single spark of courage in you?" "I don't understand you!" protested Porshinger, edging away. "What have I done to you, Pendleton?" "I've told you I don't like the cut of your coat," was the answer. "Put up your hands, if you don't want me to take my stick to you." "The man must have lost his mind! Mr. Burgoyne, can't you do something?" Porshinger cried, retreating until his back was against the railing. For answer, Pendleton's left shot out and tapped Porshinger lightly on the nose. "Put up your hands," said he, and tapped him again. Murchison sprang between them. "Stop!" he cried. "What do you mean, Pendleton?" "I've already answered that question several times," Pendleton replied. "Sheldon, will you be kind enough to take charge of Mr. Murchison?" "Come to think of it I don't like the cut of your coat either, Mr. Murchison," said Burgoyne. "Oblige me by standing aside." "What's the matter with you damn fools?" demanded Murchison. "Are you trying to pick a fight?" "Yes," said Pendleton quietly, "but we are meeting with very poor success;" and he tapped Porshinger a third time--and harder.