"A little," he confessed.
"That means about one or two, I suppose," she went on reprovingly.
"I dined at the club and stayed on," he told her. "There was nothing else to do except work, and I was a little tired of that."
"Any fresh stuff in—interesting stuff, I mean?"
He shook his head.
"Three more Russian novels," he replied, "all in French and want translating, of course. The only one I have read is terribly grim and sordid. I dare say it would sell. I am going to read the other two before I decide anything. Then perhaps you'll help me."
"Of course I will," she promised. "I do wish, though, James, you wouldn't stay at the club so late. How many whiskies and sodas?"
"I didn't count," he confessed.
She sighed.
"I know what that means! James, why aren't you a little more human? You get heaps of invitations to nice houses. Much better go out and make some women friends. You ought to marry, you know."