A negro waiter spoke of Joan one morning, in her presence, as "the Missus." When he had retired out of earshot, their eyes sought one another's; constraint was swept away in laughter.
"We might's well be married, the way we're together all the time," Quard presently ventured.
"Oh, I don't know about that," Joan retorted pertly.
"I mean, the way other people see us. I shouldn't be surprised if everybody in the hotel thought we was married, girlie."
Joan coloured faintly....
"Well, the room-clerk knows better," she said definitely. "I'd like another cup of coffee, please."
Quard snapped his fingers loudly to attract the attention of the waiter.
He grew aware of an awkward silence: that the thoughts of both were converging to a common point.
"Folks are fools that get married in the profession," he observed consciously. "It's all right if you've got a husband or I've got a wife at home—"
"I don't see it," Joan interrupted smartly. "Anyway, I haven't. Have you?"