“Blanche, my lady,” begged Titus, “don’t cry about me. It’s amused me to death to give you what little I could. It’s been my delight to see you enjoying life. And when you say I’ve let you drink my liquor it isn’t true. I’ve done myself proud all the time.”
“You’ve given up cigars,” wailed Blanche. “And you swapped your one pearl pin for an arrow to go in my hat.”
“Have a heart, my beauty, have a heart. You’re the only thing I’ve got, and if it gives me pleasure to——”
“I asked for ‘my share,’ Ti. I actually asked for ‘my share.’ Why didn’t you get up and shake me when I asked for ‘my share’?”
“I damned near did,” said Titus. “But it seemed a pity to disturb you—you looked so sweet. Half on an’ half off the table, with your precious chin exalted and a couple of hands in your lap. I don’t wonder I’m mad about you.”
Blanche continued to weep violently, refusing to be comforted. Titus sat down beside her and did what he could. The terrier, greatly distressed, alternately nosed his patrons and lay on his back before them with his paws in the air. . . .
Presently the telephone-bell began to throb.
Titus left the room to reply to the call.
Once outside the door, he covered his eyes.
“It’s coming,” he said brokenly. “ ‘There isn’t a husband like you in all the world.’ That’s what she said. Oh, my blessed darling, our summer’s coming again.”