“Return calls?” suggested Richling.
“Yes, return call. Your wife well?”
“Yes. But—why, this is the drollest”— He stopped short, for the Italian’s gravity indicated his opinion that there had been enough amusement shown. “Yes, she’s well, thank you. By-the-by, what do you think of my letting her come out here now and begin life over again? Doesn’t it seem to you it’s high time, if we’re ever going to do it at all?”
“What you think?” asked Ristofalo.
“Well, now, you answer my question first.”
“No, you answer me first.”
“I can’t. I haven’t decided. I’ve been three days thinking about it. It may seem like a small matter to hesitate so long over”—Richling paused for his hearer to dissent.
“Yes,” said Ristofalo, “pretty small.” His smile remained the same. “She ask you? Reckon you put her up to it, eh?”
“I don’t see why you should reckon that,” said Richling, with resentful coldness.
“I dunno,” said the Italian; “thought so—that’s the way fellows do sometimes.” There was a pause. Then he resumed: “I wouldn’t let her come yet. Wait.”