“You said you’d made up your mind,” he maintained anxiously.
“I said: not quite,” she corrected him.
“Oh, but you have, Erna,” he pleaded. “You’ll join hands with me? You’re sick o’ Landsmann’s. You—we’re stuck on each other, an’ the minister’s—Well, wait’ll you see the flat!” he broke off. “That’ll settle it. Wait’ll you see the flat!”
“Why?”
“I’m takin’ you there,” he informed her eagerly.
“Now?”
“Of course!” he cajoled her. “You’ll come, won’t you?” and he squeezed her arm. “There’s no harm in it. You don’t have to like the place? It don’t hurt to see it?”
“No.”
“Then we’ll go.”
Erna was busy eyeing a millinery show window.