Paul hurried back to the office. Pat was standing by the swivel chair, his hands in his pockets, gloomy and disgusted. Aïda looked towards the intruder for an explanation.
"The bastards!" exclaimed Patrick finally.
"What did they want?"
"Want! They had the nerve to try and bone me for more money, on account of postponing the wedding."
"More?"
Pat paced the floor. "You see I had to pay the old son-of-a-gun a lump sum, to get his consent in the first place."
Paul refrained from exclaiming that the old man ought to have been glad to subsidize the marriage. He was reputed to be well off.
"Did you pay up?"
"Not on your tin-type. They tried bluffin', threatened to sue me."
"And Mademoiselle?"
Pat came to a halt, his blue eyes blazing with indignation. "Would you believe it, Paul, she stuck up for 'em—for them mangy sons-o'-bitches! She wouldn't actually accuse me of wanting to get out of it, see, but she backed 'em up by noddin' her head—like a frightened kid. That's what finished me."
"Finished?"
"Finished! I gave her a month's salary on the spot and fired her. To hell with 'em."
