He remembered seeing something about a
record in the evening paper which he had bought on his way to the
studio, a whole column about heat and humidity. It certainly felt
unusually warm even for New York.
It was one of those days when nerves are strained, when molehills
become mountains, and mountains are all Everests. He had felt it when
he talked with Ruth about Bill and the squirrels, and he felt it now.
He was conscious of being extraordinarily irritated, not so much with
any particular person as with the world in general. The very vagueness
of Bailey's insinuations against Basil Milbank increased his
resentment.
What a pompous ass Bailey was! What a fool he had been to give Bailey
such a chance of snubbing him! What an extraordinarily futile and
unpleasant world it was altogether!
He braced himself with an effort. It was this heat which was making him
magnify trifles. Bailey was a fool. Probably there was nothing whatever
wrong with this fellow Milbank. Probably he had some personal objection
to the man, and that was all.
And yet the image of Basil which had come back to his mind was not
reassuring. He had mistrusted him that night, and he mistrusted him
now.
What should he do? Ruth was not Sybil. She was not the sort of woman a
man could forbid to do things. It would require tact to induce her to
refuse Basil's invitation.
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