"Max, ain't—ain't this home no more, ain't it?"
He leaned forward, an elbow on each knee and striking his left hand solidly into his right palm. "Now if that's the line of talk you got me up here for, girl, you can cut it and cut it quick!"
"No, no, Max, it ain't my line of talk. Here, sit down, dearie, in your own chair and I'll go and dish up."
"Where's Loo?"
"Her night off, poor girl. Four nights straight she's rubbed my head and—"
"Where's my—"
"Right here, dearie, is your box of pills, underneath your napkin.
There, dearie! See? Just like always."
She was full of small movements that were quick as grace notes: pinning the black lace train up and about her hips; drawing out his chair; darting with the scarcely perceptible limp down the narrow hall, back with dishes that exuded aromatic steam; placing them with deft, sure fingers. Once she paused in her haste, edged up to where he stood with one arm resting on the mantelpiece, placed an arm on each of his shoulders and let her hands dangle loose-wristed down his back.
"Tired boy, to-night! Huh? Maizie's poor tired boy!"
"Now, now!"