Herrick's first surprise gave way to amusement. After all, there was something amusing in Jean's self-centered density. For months they had come and gone without inquiring about each other's engagements and now, because the notion seized her, Jean assumed the possibility of acting as if they were in the habit of knowing each other's whereabouts every moment of the day. The amusement deepened as Jean stood without taking off her things, apparently waiting for him to decide.
Herrick had promised to take The Kitten to a Syrian restaurant that had just opened, and every moment that he delayed increased the possibility of The Kitten herself appearing. She often came for him if he were a little late, although Herrick had begged her not to. She liked the excitement of the risk she ran in meeting Jean, but she always claimed that she came because she loved the studio.
Herrick stood undecided. A meal with Jean would be a restful thing. There would be no emotional demands, no insistence. And The Kitten was getting very insistent. At first, the renewal of her little, cuddling pleas to be assured of his love had thrilled him and made him feel alive. Her fits of childish rage had amused him, just as in the old days. Besides, he could always bring her to time by leaving her for a while. The sense of power was pleasant. But the monotony of its exertion was beginning to weary him.
To-night she would be very insistent. From the first warm days of spring she had been begging him to go for a week to the Portuguese ranch and Herrick did not want to go. She had been through almost all her bag of tricks. She had been the petted, teasing child, the angry woman, the commanding mistress. There was one left. To-night she would be the alluring, giving-all, asking-nothing lover. For that reason she had chosen a new setting. In the isolation of the Syrian restaurant they would be alone. She would wear the dress he liked best, a thin, black clinging thing, and a hat that threw kind shadows on the small face. Against the background of sawdust floor, of strange, dark men who came to eat, she would stand out, fragile and completely his.
Jean saw the hesitation, the uncertainty in his eyes.
"Never mind, if you have another engagement. I'll go down to the delicatessen and get something. I don't suppose there's anything in the house to eat."
Jean smiled. She couldn't help thinking of Martha and what a heinous crime it would be to have a house and nothing to eat in it.
"We aren't very good housekeepers, are we?"
"No, there's nothing; but the shops aren't closed yet. It would be rather nice to eat here."
After all there was a touch of excitement in being invited to picnic unexpectedly with one's own wife.