It lay there on the hall table that first morning, an innocent oblong, its headlines staring up at them with inky eyes.
"Paper, T.A.," she said, and handed it to him.
"You take it, dear."
"Oh, no! No."
She poured the coffee, trying to keep her gaze away from the tantalizing tail-end of the headline at whose first half she could only guess.
"By Jove, Emma! Listen to this! Pershing says if we have one m—"
"Stop right there! We've become pretty well acquainted in the last three years, T.A. But if you haven't learned that if there's one thing I can't endure, it's being fed across the table with scraps of the day's news, I shall have to consider our marriage a failure."
"Oh, very well. I merely thought you'd be—"
"I am. But there's something about having it read to you—"
On the second morning Emma, hurriedly fastening the middle button of her blouse on her way downstairs, collided with her husband, who was shrugging himself into his coat. They continued their way downstairs with considerable dignity and pronounced leisure. The paper lay on the hall table. They reached for it. There was a moment—just the fraction of a minute—when each clutched a corner of it, eying the other grimly. Then both let go suddenly, as though the paper had burned their fingers. They stared at each other, surprise and horror in their gaze. The paper fell to the floor with a little slap. Both stooped for it, apologetically. Their heads bumped. They staggered back, semi-stunned.