"You certainly are!" Anthony Fry rasped.
"You don't have to screw your face all up when you say it!" Mr. Boller informed him, disengaging himself.
Beatrice laughed charmingly.
"You'll overlook it, Mr. Fry?" said she. "We've never been separated before in all the——"
"Six months!" beamed Johnson Boller.
"—that we've been married!" finished his wife, squeezing his hand.
Followed a pause. Anthony had nothing whatever to say; after witnessing an exhibition like that he never had anything to say for an hour or more that a lady could hear. He stood, a cold, stately, disgusted figure, surging internally, thanking every star in the firmament that he had never laid himself open to a situation of that kind—and after a time the inimical radiations from him reached Beatrice, for she laughed uneasily.
"May I—may I fix my hair?" she asked. "And then we'll go home, Pudgy?"
"Yes, my love," purred Johnson Boller.
"Which is your room, pigeon-boy?" his bride asked.