They had a nice third-story room, with a black-marble mantelpiece, an antique carpet and steel engravings of Lincoln’s Cabinet and Daniel Webster. It was a dear little lovenest. Every evening Maurice played solitaire on a marble-topped table. She put on an old wrapper, let down her hair, made it all nice and stringy with cologne, lay down on the bed and moaned. They were three years married now. He was twenty-two, she was going on for about sixty-six.
“Star, why do you moan?” he asked gently.
“You’re tired of me, Maurice. You don’t love me,” she moaned. “I’m jealous.”
“Of whom,” he inquired.
“Of Edith, of your Aunt Mary, of your stenographer, of our landlady, of the schoolteacher downstairs, of our late cook, of everybody.”
Moan—moan—moan. “Jealousy isn’t a vice. It’s my favorite indoor sport. I love you—I love you so.” Moan—moan—moan. “Tell me you love me, Maurice.”
“I do—yes, of course, naturally, I love you—devotedly, madly.”
“You don’t love me! You don’t love me!”
He threw the table at her. She screamed.
“Excuse me, dearest, for an hour or two. I forgot something.” He took his hat and went out. All the lights went out....