“No, I had to learn it,” Ruthie said, unruffled. “I had to do something. I only did private work, you know.” She cast a quick glance at Jeannette’s face. “Martin and I didn’t meet in a barber shop!” she added with a bright laugh.
Jeannette could think of nothing to say to this, so she nodded, and gazed into the red coals of the grate-fire before which the two women were standing.
“Here he is!” Ruthie said, suddenly.
Martin’s step could be heard approaching and in a moment he entered the living-room. Jeannette noticed he had changed into dinner clothes.
“Well, Jan, it’s mighty darned nice to see you here,” he said advancing, rubbing his hands. He appeared well-groomed, was freshly shaved, his clothes fitted him to perfection, his thick neck and swarthy skin seemed clean and wholesome.
“Have a little cocktail?” he suggested. “I’ve got a cracker-jack bootlegger that brings me the stuff direct from New York,—real old Gordon! If this damned governor of ours has his way, we’re not likely to get any more of it. This prohibition stuff makes me sick, doesn’t it you?”
“It doesn’t bother me, Martin,” Jeannette answered lightly. “I never drink anything.”
“Well, how about having a little cocktail to-night? Just by way of celebration? Huh? What d’you say?”
“No-o, thank you, Martin; not to-night. I really never touch it, but don’t let me stop you two.”
“Ruthie doesn’t drink either. She’s a plumb tee-totaler,—believes in it! What do you know about that?”