the clearest long-distance connection could be made with a certain Boston specialist on bones. He wasn't, therefore, available for an inquisition until dinner time. And then he did not prove at all satisfying. "He never makes a good story out of anything," complained one of the women. He was accommodating enough in answering all direct questions put him, about food and fuel and that sort of thing. It was when a question bordered on Miss Miller that he became so irritatingly non-committal.
"But, of course, he's got to be a gentleman," said Ollie. "To say nothing is probably the only civil thing he can do."
But Bord was simply waiting for a propitious moment in which to send off his fireworks. It didn't come until after coffee, over pipes and cigars and cigarettes, before the office fireplace. He chanced to be occupying the same big arm chair where four nights ago he had winked at Miss Miller's expense. All of the party, except Edna herself, were gathered round him.
"Well, girls," he drawled abruptly, in that patronizing way, he sometimes assumed, "I guess you've got about the whole story now. All you haven't got is my humble opinion of Miss Miller," he said, and he smiled drolly. Everybody's eyes were upon him.
