Jimmy Allen’s mood had reached a state of hopeless disregard. He committed a decided blunder. With cheerful candor, he asked, without troubling himself to turn around: “Erna! When do we move in?”
She gave his back an indignant glance. “What did you say?”
“I said: when do we move in?”
Her instinct was up in arms. Throwing coolness into her reply, she returned deliberately: “Not until doomsday.”
He stopped fixing his tie. But he continued: “You’re gettin’ crazy again.”
“I’m not,” she replied without changing her tone. “I said: not until doomsday.”
He turned toward her, smiling. But the smile left his face. “What’s the matter now?” he asked, coming forward.
“Go on dressin’!” she commanded, his smile having started her petulance.
He, however, had come over to the couch and now stood over her, staring at her stupidly. She looked up at him, animosity in her glance. His vapid expression deepened.
“Well?” she challenged.