"Meow?" said my husband, with a rising inflection.
The bright color came to my cheeks.
"Not at all," I said indignantly. "I like Mercedes Howell very much. But—"
Bill raised an eyebrow, smiled at the glowing end of the cigarette in his hand and said nothing.
He got up from the table and went toward the door.
"Have Miss Willard out here by all means," he said, "but she's milk and water. For my own amusement, in my own humble opinion, Mercedes is more stimulating to the Tired Business Man."
He stopped to light another cigarette.
"Of course," he said, through the first breath of smoke, "Wright will naturally suspect you of match-making. All young, happily married women have that benign tendency."
I was stricken dumb with sudden hatred, and before my lips could open again, Bill, with Wiggles at his heels, went out into the sunshine, whistling the challenging song from the first act of "Carmen."
I went to my room and wrote a letter, which, however, I was destined never to send, to Richard Warren.