“Shake!” he cried.
Loseis could not control the impulse of her blood that forced her to rise suddenly (she had finished her breakfast) and to say with cool distaste: “Oh, please not. I hate to paw.”
And Gault’s blood was aware of the true significance of that recoil, but his vanity would not acknowledge it. He sat glowering at her half-hurt, half-angry, a pathetic sight at fifty-three. “Oh, sorry,” he said in a flat voice. “It is instinctive amongst men.”
“I know,” said Loseis, trying to smooth things over. “But I am not a man. . . . Do smoke one of your delicious cigars. I have missed them during the last few days.”
Gault allowed himself to be deceived. “My pet weakness!” he said, smiling at Loseis rather killingly.
They were tempted outside. Loseis’ gaze involuntarily swept the heavens. No cloud in sight; not the filmiest of vapors to dim the inverted bowl of blue. There would be no rain for days. It was well.
“What are you expecting?” asked Gault smiling.
“Oh, nothing!” she said with a shrug. “My father always looked at the sky when he came out of doors. I suppose I caught the habit from him. . . . Shall we walk down to the river? Things have been so mixed up lately, all my habits are broken up. I need exercise.”
“Delighted!” said Gault. “. . . There is not going to be any more quarreling, is there?” he added with his fond smile.
“I hope not,” said Loseis demurely.