He enjoyed calling things by wrong names, and the word shift always amused him. He found words entertaining, a habit that often annoyed her. But this time she did not stop to correct him.
“You ought to wear a rubber cap when you go bathing. The salt water gets your hair all sticky, and then the comb tears it out. I don’t mind your being an atheist, but I’d hate you to be bald.”
He blew a spout of tobacco smoke up at her. It was extraordinarily fragrant. Oh, well, she thought, he’s not a bad old thing. He’s endurable.
“George.” She intended to say, “I love you.” But of their own accord the words changed themselves before they escaped into voice.
“George, do you love me?”
He made his usual unsatisfactory reply. “Well, what do you think?” Of course the proper answer is, “I adore you.” She knew, by now, that he never would make it; probably because he was aware she craved it.
“I’m writing Miss Clyde to come to the Picnic.”
He looked a little awkward.
“Needn’t do that, I wrote to her yesterday. I said you were busy and wanted me to ask her.”
“Well, of all things——”