“I thought Eleanor might be here,” she observed, as though she expected him to feel guilty.
“She left only a moment ago,” he answered frankly.
She appeared to be taking aim.
“I was writing home,” he took her into his confidence to ward off as long as possible whatever might be coming.
“I thought artists had no homes.”
“On the contrary they have more homes than anyone else.”
“I suppose that depends upon your definition of a home,” she suggested.
“Doubtless,” he agreed.
“To my mind it is where one is brought up.”
“Lord forbid,” he gasped, thinking of the apartment houses.