Gertrude telephoned that she was coming this afternoon. I offered to go to her, but she would drop in, she graciously insisted, now that I was a family man, after lunching with a friend at the Brevoort.
Gertrude's entry is always breezy and cheerful.
"Hello, Ranny," she murmured lightly, sinking on the sofa and holding out both hands. I took them, kissed them and held them in mine. I was well aware that for her these were days of tension.
"That's nice," said Gertrude with a laugh. "But what I want is a cigarette, a match and an ash tray."
"Of course, how stupid of me!" I mumbled and supplied her with her wants.
"Those books, Ranny," she puffed, scanning my laden shelves, "they terrify me afresh every time I see them—when I think you've read them all."
"They needn't alarm you," I deprecated quite sincerely. "The more I read them the less I seem to know—as you will agree." And I sat facing her.
"No room for the brains to turn round in?" she laughed. "Oh, come, dear boy, it's not so bad as that. I really think," she added more soberly, "you have a very wise old bean on your shoulders."
"What sudden and startling discovery leads you to words so rash?" I inquired.
"I've made the discovery all right," she nodded with emphasis. "Anybody who can handle a situation like this the way you're handling it is no piker."