"Do? Do?" stammered Bill, backing away. "Gregg, you haven't seen Marjorie, have you? You've no idea what Clearedge Street and Rinderfeld have done to her. She's not the same girl at all. But oh, my God, I love her so, Gregg; I love her so much more when she's in this frightful trouble which is doing things to her—things she can't realize at all. Why, Gregg, an hour ago when I tried to show her that what she'd done wasn't right, she answered me that right didn't make any difference; she said right was only the obvious thing to do, as if any one was a fool who did it."
Gregg stared from Billy down to the floor, and he was shaking from his constraint. Poor Bill, he felt; and poor, dear, dear little Marjorie, shut in there at home with the revelation of the flat on Clearedge Street behind her, with disgrace and scandal suspended on the thinnest of hairs above her, and having no one to help her through these weeks but Billy and Felix Rinderfeld,—Bill with his blunt, blind, utterly reckless morality and Rinderfeld with his comprehensions. No wonder she turned to Rinderfeld who offered her explanations, false and degraded, perhaps, but yet explanations. He gave her something for her mind to seize and accept or attack and supplied her with mental occupation at a time when she most desperately needed it, while Bill, of course, offered her feelings when she could but revolt at the stir of passion.
He, himself—Gregg—what had he to offer her? He did not know; but, whatever it was, he was going to offer it against Billy and—against Rinderfeld. He had never imagined Rinderfeld a contestant for Marjorie; and he recognized that Billy honestly did not consider Rinderfeld as a rival to him for Marjorie, because Billy could not put Rinderfeld on the same
