But later, in the conservatory, when Henry had considerately left them alone, the laughter dried up.
Morey didn’t notice. He was very conscientiously making the rounds: turning on the tri-D, selecting their after-dinner liqueurs, scanning the evening newspapers.
Cherry cleared her throat self-consciously, and Morey stopped what he was doing. “Dear,” she said tentatively, “I’m feeling kind of restless tonight. Could we—I mean do you think we could just sort of stay home and—well, relax?”
Morey looked at her with a touch of concern. She lay back wearily, eyes half closed. “Are you feeling all right?” he asked.
“Perfectly. I just don’t want to go out tonight, dear. I don’t feel up to it.”
He sat down and automatically lit a cigarette. “I see,” he said. The tri-D was beginning a comedy show; he got up to turn it oflf, snapping on the tape-player. Muted strings filled the room.
“We had reservations at the club tonight,” he reminded her.
Cherry shifted uncomfortably. “I know.”
“And we have the opera tickets that I turned last week’s in for. I hate to nag, darling, but we haven’t used any of our opera tickets.”
“We can see them right here on the tri-D,” she said in a small voice.