“What are you thinking of?” asked Gita, smiling. “You haven’t said a word for five minutes.”
“You. I was wondering how long we’d have you with us.”
“What an idea. You’ll probably sit with me in this room at precisely the same hour next year.”
“The slight bitterness of your accent confirms my misgivings. I doubt if you’ll be in this house.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, frowning.
“Well, that you’ve been fumbling, so far—not even experimenting, like most women.”
“I don’t like either word.”
“Neither really should apply to you. You’re extremely clear-sighted about most things, but there’s a catch somewhere. I can’t get it. I’d like to, and I too am fumbling, just now. At all events that is the way you impress me, and I’ve a hazy idea that you’ll come out of the fog before long.”
“Come out of the fog?” Gita stared at him under lowered brows and then jerked her head. “I forgot you were a maker of phrases.”
“Only when I’m sweating at the typewriter. I assure you that was spontaneous—and seems to fit you.”