"Is that a good love story?" asked he. "As good as ours?"
A tender little smile of half absent appreciation played round her lips. But—her glance remained upon her reading. "It isn't a novel," replied she. "It's a treatise."
"A treatise?" mocked he. "Gracious me! What a wise fairy it is! Put it away, and let's go on the balcony. There'll not be many more sit-out nights."
He moved to pick her up in his arms. But she smilingly pushed him away. "I want to finish this chapter," said she.
"All right. I'll go out and smoke. Don't be long."
And he sauntered through the window door. After perhaps a quarter of an hour she joined him in the hammock. Matrimony is a curious fabric of set phrases, set thoughts, and set actions. It was their habit, in such circumstances, for her to snuggle up to him and for him to put his arm round her. The habit was on this occasion observed. It was her habit to assume that she was happy—and she now so assumed. He began the conversation. "I've been watching you as I sat here," said he lazily. "What are all those books on the table? They look serious—businesslike."
"Let's not talk about anything serious. You always laugh at me or get absent-minded."
"But you seemed so absorbed. What was it?"
"Oh, I've been doing a little reading and thinking and studying for the past year. You see, when a woman takes care of a baby, she's got to look out or she'll become one herself."
"But you are a baby." And there followed the usual caresses.