They went back into the living room. Mrs. Ritchie looked up, frowned. "Oh, swell," she said. "Dandy. All we need now is a bridge four."
"Ruth's just terribly upset," Mr. Ritchie said.
"Well," the large man said, "it's nice to see unanimity in this house for once anyway. Hi, Ruth." He walked over to the bar and found the martini mix and drained the jar's contents into a glass. Then he
drained the glass.
"Hey, take it easy!"
Max Kaplan turned to face his hosts. He looked quite a bit older than usual: the grin wasn't boyish now. "Dear folkses," he said, "when I die, I don't want to see any full bottles around."
"Oh, ha-ha, that's just so very deliriously funny," Mrs. Ritchie said. She was massaging her temples.
"I am glad to see her ladyship amused." Kaplan followed Mr. Ritchie's gaze. "Hickory dickory dock, the mice looked at the clock...."
"Oh, shut up."
"Oop, sorry." The big man mixed up a new batch silently, then refilled the three glasses. He sat down. The clock's tick, a deep sharp bass sound, got louder and louder in the room. Kaplan rested his head on the couch arm. "Less than an hour," he said. "Not even an hour—"