He swore softly.
"I can't see baby now," he said aloud. "How long 'fore you'll be down?"
There was a mysterious pause, and then a succession of "Don'ts" and "Look outs, Maxy" evidently meant to avert some threatened catastrophe.
"How long 'fore you'll be down?" repeated Roger, slightly irritated.
"Oh, I'll be right down."
"How soon?" he shouted.
He had trouble every day at this hour in adapting his voice from the urgent key of the city to the proper casualness for a model home. But to-night he was deliberately impatient. It almost disappointed him when Gretchen came running down the stairs, three at a time, crying "What is it?" in a rather surprised voice.
They kissed—lingered over it some moments. They had been married three years, and they were much more in love than that implies. It was seldom that they hated each other with that violent hate of which only young couples are capable, for Roger was still actively sensitive to her beauty.
"Come in here," he said abruptly. "I want to talk to you."
His wife, a bright-colored, Titian-haired girl, vivid as a French rag doll, followed him into the living-room.