"
"Times have changed, Snow," Bowman interrupted. "You ought to read the
papers. This is ladies' day. The old harem stuff don't go no longer.
They are emancipated."
"Lemuel," Doret insisted, a narrowed hard gaze on the other man;
"Lemuel Doret."
"He thinks nobody'll remember," his wife explained. "Lem's redeemed."
"Your name's what you say," Bowman agreed, "but remember this--you
can't throw any scare into me. I'm no Fauntleroy, neither. Behave."
The anger seethed again beneath Lemuel's restraint. It began to be
particular, personal, focused on Bowman; and joined to it was a petty
dislike for the details of the man's appearance, the jaunty bearing and
conspicuous necktie, the gloss of youth over the unmistakable signs of
degeneration, the fatty pouches of his eyes and loose throat.
"I wouldn't bother with scaring you," he told him. "Why should I?
You've got no kick. I took you in, didn't I? And all I said was my
name. Snow Doret's dead; he died in prison; and this Lemuel's all
different----"
"I've heard about that too," Bowman returned; "but somehow I don't take
stock in these miracles."
"If you ever see me looking like I might be Snow, go quiet," Lemuel
advised. "That's all."
With clenched hands he abruptly departed. The cords of his neck were
swollen and rigid; there was a haze before his eyes. He went up to the
refuge of his daughter's room. She was lying still, breathing thickly,
with a finger print of scarlet on each cheek.
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