"If I'd let you have your foolish, impulsive, romantic way, and you'd been at my elbow down at the shop, where I get irritable and cranky—we'd not have made our present record—would we?"
She shivered. "No," she said faintly.
"Five years with hardly a misunderstanding, and not one quarrel."
His words, his manner—complacent, content—calmly possessive—dried up her courage and her hope. But she held to her purpose. She said, "We're not interested enough in each other to quarrel."
He laughed, assuming she was jesting. "That's it! That's exactly it."
"I was speaking seriously. It's the truth. We care nothing about each other."
"Courtney!" he admonished. "Aren't you carrying the joke too far? I don't think you realize how that sounds."
"I realize how it is."
He looked at her curiously. "Why, I thought you were joking."
"Not in the least."