"No; I'm sick of that hole," Joan replied with a vivid shudder. "I'm going to take a walk. Want to come?"
"I was just going to ask you."
They turned off toward the Delaware.
It was the twenty-first of November—winter still a month away; yet the breath of winter was in the air. It came up cool and brisk from the river, enriching the colour in Joan's cheeks that were bright and glowing from the scrubbing she always gave them after removing grease-paint with cold cream. The blood coursed tingling through her veins. Her eyes shone with deepened lustre. They walked with spirit, in step, in a pensive silence infrequently disturbed.
"Of course," Quard presently offered without preface, "it's different in vodeveal, if you stick to it."
"What's different?"
"Being married."
Joan's eyes widened momentarily. Then she laughed outright. "Gee! You don't mean to say you've been chewing that rag ever since breakfast?"
"Ah, I just happened to think of it again," said Quard with the air of one whose motives are wantonly misconstrued.
Nevertheless, he wouldn't let the subject languish.