He took her up—it seemed to her between his thumb and forefinger—and set her outside his door, promptly closing and locking it.
She heard him return to his work. She trotted home. Her husband, as she paused to look in at his door, greeted her:
“Had a good time?”
She could not answer.
He yawned, delicately. He was seated at his mirror, arranging his wringing wet permanent in serried rows by means of tiny combs.
“Gooooo—oooo—oo—d night,” he said.
That was all. Yet she was kinda mad.
A footle, twaddly love affair! No art. A silly little dumpling smattering with a brute beast.