Floyd didn’t like to appear heartless, but he had already learnt to use a little diplomacy with his wife.
“Do you realize how unbecoming black is to you?”
She looked at him, startled.
“It’s gone out of fashion. Only old people wear crêpe nowadays; a black band is quite sufficient. Why should you parade your grief?”
She didn’t answer, but the next morning she came to breakfast in a “royal” purple tea gown.
Floyd kissed her eyes, lips, hands; he had his sweetheart again.
Julie smiled at him. She liked to be worshipped.
“Come, come! I’m hungry. Don’t you want any breakfast?”
“I want nothing but you.”