Then he turned his back on her and walked over to the bar. He ignored the ready liqueurs and poured two stiff highballs, brought them back to her. He set one down beside her, took a long drink from the other.
In quite a different tone, he said, “Dear, what’s the matter?”
No answer.
“Come on. What is it?”
She looked up at him and rubbed at her eyes. Almost sullenly, she said, “Sorry.”
“I know you’re sorry. Look, we love each other. Let’s talk this thing out.”
She picked up her drink and held it for a moment, before setting it down untasted. “What’s the use, Morey?”
“Please. Let’s try.”
She shrugged.
He went on remorselessly, “You aren’t happy, are you? And it’s because of—well, all this.” His gesture took in the richly furnished conservatory, the thick-piled carpet, the host of machines and contrivances for their comfort and entertainment that waited for their touch. By implication it took in twenty-six rooms, five cars, nine robots. Morey said, with an effort, “It isn’t what you’re used to, is it?”