"Why, you!—" The doctor started forward, menacing me with his surgical little fists.
"Wait a minute, Jerry," the contralto voice ordered. "Let me handle this!"
Germaine Tompkins stepped forward into the room and stood in the flickering light of the electric peat. "Tell me, Winnie," she asked, "has anything gone wrong?"
My wife was a tall, slim girl, with dark eyes, dark hair parted sleekly in the 1860 style, and a cool, slender neck. She was wearing something low-cut in black velvet, with a white cameo brooch at the "V" of a bodice which suggested a potentially undemure Quakeress. I noticed that she had angry eyes, a sulky mouth and a puzzled expression.
"I'm sorry, Jimmie," I replied, after a good look at her, "but I have decided that I simply couldn't go through with it."
"Do you mean to say—" Dr. Rutherford began, only to be hushed by Germaine. "Let me handle him, Jerry," she whispered. "You'd better go. He's tight. I'll phone you in the morning."
"All right, if you say so, dear," the doctor obeyed.
"And be sure to send me a bill for this call," I added. "Professional services and what-not. And don't come back to my house without my personal invitation."
Dr. Rutherford emitted a muttered comment and disappeared into the gloom of the hall. My wife followed him and I could hear a series of confused and comforting whispers sending him on his way. I had finished my Scotch and poured myself another before my wife rejoined me.
"Have a drink?" I asked.