I was in the kitchenette, getting tea again, when Betty came to the door and hissed her impressions in a stage whisper.
“Why didn’t you tell me she was so charming?”
Business with the kettle.
“She’s one of the sweetest creatures I ever met.”
Business with the hot water.
“I don’t know why I ever thought she looked theatrical. She must have had on somebody else’s clothes. She’s a Madonna—those eyes and that sad far-away look.”
Business with the toast.
Betty was so interested that she got into the kitchenette with me. The congestion was extreme, especially as she takes up so much room and is so hard. You can’t squeeze by her or flatten her against walls—you might as well try to flatten a Corinthian column. I had to feel round her for cups and plates, engirdle her glistening and prosperous bulk and grope about on the shelves behind her.
“It’s absurd of her fooling about with this music. She ought to marry. Has she any serious admirer?”
“Wouldn’t any woman who looked like that have serious admirers? Betty, I can’t find the cups. Would you mind moving an inch or two?”