"Wait till we're alone," whispered Wright, mysteriously. "I could a tale unfold—! Enough to turn your hair grey. Broken hearts all over the place—he just stepped on 'em. Anonymous letters, begging for a lock of hair or an old glove! There have been times when your husband, Madame, has been forced to assume a disguise!"
"You colossal idiot," said Bill amiably.
"Don't listen to him, Mavis," urged Bill's best friend. "Listen to me instead!"
"I'm willing to be convinced," I answered. "And now that you're both on your second cigarette, shall we walk about the place a little? Bill," I went on, turning to him, very sweetly, "would you mind running to my room and getting my big, lavender shade hat—? It's right on the bureau."
For a moment I thought that he would shake me. I knew he wanted to. But, instead, he swung obediently away and took his revenge in a careless "All right, dear!" as he went off.
"Isn't he a peach!" mused Wright aloud, watching admiringly the broad-shouldered figure across the room.
"You've known him long?" I asked, in order to avoid answering.
"Roommates at Princeton," he replied. "Those were the good old days! There never was a more popular man in college than old Bill! I basked in reflected glory all the time. He was always the King Pin among us, whether it was football, or writing skits, or drumming the piano."
"You must have a lot in common," I suggested, "especially your poetry—"
Wright's round, blue eyes grew rounder than ever.