“Thank Heaven, I’m single. I can enjoy such things.” Holt laughed.
“You mean,” John corrected, “you can enjoy them out loud.”
“And why can’t you, John?” Catherine protested. “Naturally and connubially, you find it rather dull paying compliments to me, but certainly Miss Trent deserves a few. Why in the world don’t you warm up?”
“I am warming up,” he replied, his dry smile all for the wet wine in his glass.
She showed increased dissatisfaction over his impersonalities. “You sound and look distrait to-night. Are you worried, dear? Rufus told us something about bricks falling on the Street. Is it true that you were hit?”
“Hard hit.”
“You mean that you lost money?”
“Lost?” He spoke with vague surprise. “Can I ever lose? Alas, no. While the rumor-mongers were spreading the report which Rufus heard about my losses, I made—made—made.”
“You funny, clever John! Tell me”—a gleam lit the wife’s eyes—“was it much that you made?”
“Too much. It is disconcerting to gather in upward of a million unintentionally.”