He is the man I have promised to marry." Her voice had a singular quietness.
Warrington retreated to his desk, leaning heavily against it.
"Bennington?
You are going to marry John Bennington ?" dully.
"Yes." He sat down abruptly and stared at her with the expression of one who is suddenly confronted by some Medusa's head, as if in the straggling wisps of hair that escaped from beneath her hat he saw the writhing serpents.

She was going to marry John Bennington! She stepped quickly up to the desk and began to scatter things about.
Her hands shook, she breathed rapidly, her delicate nostrils dilating the while.
"Look out!" he warned, at her side the same instant.

"Your hat is burning!" He smothered the incipient flame between his palms.
"Never mind the hat.

My gloves, Dick, my gloves! I left them here on the desk." "Your gloves ?" Then immediately he recollected that he had seen them in Bennington's hands, but he was positive that the gloves meant nothing to Bennington.

He had picked them up just as he would have picked up a paper-cutter, a pencil, a match-box, if any of these had been within reach of his nervous fingers.