"Good afternoon," she answered, not looking up.
Jerry sang gaily as he dumped his belongings on the divan. He lit a cigarette, and laughed aloud involuntarily.
"Have you ever had delirium tremens, Miss Judd?" he demanded. She looked up without reply. "I've got a case right now."
She went on with her work. He glanced at her, marked how the shadow from the lamp accentuated the bold modelling of her face, bringing out its mask-like quality.
"I suppose you don't deal much in emotions," he added.
She neither smiled nor answered. He laughed at the idea himself.
"Jane Judd, conversationally, you are about as satisfactory as 'a bloomin' idol made of mud.'"
"You do not engage me to talk," she answered, in a low rather dull voice. "You engage me to work."
"So I do, but some day I am going to pay you double rates for your thoughts. A silent woman is a menace. I'm afraid of you."
A rat-a-tat-tat came on the door.