She nodded. “Charles Whitly, the son of John Whitly, the millionaire,” she said, in a hard, toneless voice. “We are very respectable people, and even the police salute us. Our friends are very respectable too. We own three motor-cars, six racehorses, a yacht, a private beach, a library of expensive books that no one reads, and lots of other very expensive and useless things. My husband plays polo…”
“And he won the Purple Heart,” I said, shaking my head. “It sounds wonderful.”
Her lip curled. “It does. It was when I married him.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Well, it isn’t my idea of fun.”
“It hasn’t turned out to be mine either,” she said, examining the bracelet.
We could go on like this all night, so I opened the front door. I guess I’ll be running along,” I said. “I enjoyed meeting you, and I’m sorry about the expensive things, and I’m sorry about hitting your husband on the head.”
“Don’t be sorry about that. It’ll give him another topic of conversation,” she said, and swayed towards me.
“I’m still sorry,” I said. Our faces were close.
“You don’t find life dull, do you?” she asked. I put my arm around her and kissed her. We stayed like that for a minute or so, then I pushed her gently away.
“Life’s fine,” I said, and went down the steps of the house. I didn’t look back.