She dipped into a shallow plate of amber soup. "I know," she said, "all about that."
"Ma's a good sport about being left at home alone."
"How do you know? You never tried it until to-night. I'll bet it's the first time since that night you first met me, five years ago, at Jerome Fertig's, and it wouldn't have been then if she hadn't had the neuralgia and it was your own clerk's wedding."
He laid down his spoon, settling back a bit from the table, pulling the napkin across his knees out into a string.
"I thought we'd gone all over that, Clara."
"Yes; but where did it get us? That's why we're here to-night, Sam—to get somewheres."
He crumbed his bread. "What do you mean, Clara?"
She forced his slow gaze to hers calmly, her hands outstretched on the table between them. "I've made up my mind, Sam. Things can't go on this way no longer between us."
"Just what do you mean by that?"
"I mean that we've either got to act or quit."