He was unfolding the damp newspaper carefully so as not to tear it. "What's that? Walk?"
"That's what I said."
He had his paper open by this time, and was glancing at the headlines. When a man is glancing at headlines, it is just as well to let him glance. I gave him fifteen minutes. Then I reopened the matter.
"Jonathan, I said walk."
"What's that?" His tone was vague. It was what I call his newspaper tone. It suggests extreme remoteness, but tolerance, even benevolence, if he is let alone. He drifted slowly over to the window and made a pretense of looking out, but his eyes were still running down the columns. "My dear," he remarked, still in the same tone, "had you noticed that it is beginning to rain?"
"I noticed that yesterday afternoon, about three o'clock," I said.
"Oh, all right. I thought perhaps you hadn't."
"Well?" I waited.
"Well—" he hung fire while he finished the tail of the editorial. Then he threw down the paper. "Don't you think it's rather poor weather for walking?"
This was what I had been waiting for, and I responded glibly, "Some one has said there is no such thing as bad weather, there are only good clothes."