Thus, she was no repellent, aggravating companion to Rod as she awaited the cataclysm.
It came in the third week. He spent the entire day away from her, toward midnight he returned, flushed with liquor. She had gone to bed. "Get up and dress," said he with an irritability toward her which she had no difficulty in seeing was really directed at himself. "I'm hungry—and thirsty. We're going out for some supper."
"Come kiss me first," said she, stretching out her arms. Several times this device had shifted his purpose from spending money on the needless and expensive suppers.
He laughed. "Not a kiss. We're going to have one final blow-out. I start to work tomorrow. I've taken a place on the Herald—on space, guaranty of twenty-five a week, good chance to average fifty or sixty."
He said this hurriedly, carelessly, gayly—guiltily. She showed then and there what a surpassing wise young woman she was, for she did not exclaim or remind him of his high resolve to do or die as a playwright. "I'll be ready in a minute," was all she said.
She dressed swiftly, he lounging on the sofa and watching her. He loved to watch her dress, she did it so gracefully, and the motions brought out latent charms of her supple figure. "You're not so sure-fingered tonight as usual," said he. "I never saw you make so many blunders—and you've got one stocking on wrong side out."
She smiled into the glass at him. "The skirt'll cover that. I guess I was sleepy."
"Never saw your eyes more wide-awake. What're you thinking about?"
"About supper," declared she. "I'm hungry. I didn't feel like eating alone."
"I can't be here always," said he crossly—and she knew he was suspecting what she really must be thinking.