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THE DUST FLOWER
THE DUST FLOWER
THE DUST FLOWER
THE DUST FLOWER
It is not often that you see a man tear his hair, but this is exactly what Rashleigh Allerton did. He tore it, first, because of being under the stress of great agitation, and second, because he had it to tear--a thick, black shock with a tendency to part in the middle, but brushed carefully to one side. Seated on the extreme edge of one of Miss Walbrook's strong, slender armchairs, his elbows on his knees, he dug his fingers into the dark mass with every fresh taunt from his fianc?e.
She was standing over him, high-tempered, imperious. "So it's come to this," she said, with decision; "you've got to choose between a stupid, vulgar lot of men, and me."
He gritted his teeth. "Do you expect me to give up all my friends?"
He jumped to his feet, a slim, good-looking, well-dressed figure in spite of the tumbled effect imparted by excitement. "But, good heavens, Barbara, what have I been doing?"
"I don't pretend to follow you there. I only know the condition in which you came here from the club last night."
He was honestly bewildered. "Came here from the club last night? Why--why, I wasn't so bad."
"Please, Rash! I don't want to know the details."
"Rash, dear, I haven't known you all my life without being quite aware that you're excitable. 'Crazy Rash' we used to call you when we were children, and Crazy Rash you are still. But that's not my point."
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