Her father shifted a trifle uneasily. Blenham watched her intently,
admiringly after a gross fashion and yet a bit contemptuously. Blenham
could put a look like that into his eye; to him a girl was a thing that
might be both sneered at and coveted.
"My dear," said Temple, striving for clear enunciation and in the end
achieving it heavily, "I am glad you came. I want you to listen. We
must act wisely. We must not misjudge Mr. Blenham."
While Terry remained silent, looking from one to the other of the two
men. Temple drank his whiskey hastily, furtively, snatching the second
when her gaze had gone to Blenham.
"What's the game?" asked Terry in a moment.
She set her books down upon the table at her side, put out her hand to
the back of a chair, and like the men remained standing.
Temple looked to Blenham, who merely shrugged his thick shoulders and
sipped at his whiskey, as though it had been a light wine and very soft
to an appreciative palate. In some vague way the act was vastly
insolent. Temple appeared uncertain, no uncommon thing with him; then,
going to set his emptied glass down he put an elbow on the mantel,
dropped his head, and spoke in a low, mumbling voice:
"The game? It's what it always was, Terry girl; what it always will
be. The game of the ear of corn and the millstones; the game of the
unfortunate under the iron heel.
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