"I seem to recall a great many truisms about the joy of work!"
"It's flapdoodle," she agreed, "the stuff that dreams are made of."
"No, speeches," he amended.
For a few days they both felt cramped, they shifted the old burden of the day's work uneasily, but routine breaks down resistance in the end, and they fell into step with their tasks. Paul was driven every moment. Their hurried visits were unsatisfactory enough. Bob kept in touch with his plans and movements as well as she could, but her own work was trying. The late heat was exhausting, and rehearsing always tried her soul.
"You act like a balky pony, Barbara Garratry," she scolded herself, "I wish Bill were here to give you a 'good jawin'."
Paul appeared at night about seven, hot, tired, harassed.
"Busy to-night?"
"No."
"What do you say to dinner on a roof garden—a city mountain top?"
"Delighted. Are you speaking to-night?"