"That was another bit of carelessness," said Pierre, but his smile held little of life. "He might have known that if he had shot close—by accident—I might have turned around and shot him dead—on purpose. But when a man stops thinking for a minute, he's apt to go on for a long time making a fool of himself."
"Right," she said, brightening as she felt the crisis pass away, "and that reminds me of a story about—"
"By the way, Jack, I'll wager there's a more interesting story than that you could tell me."
"What?"
"About how that glove happened to be on the floor."
"Why, partner, it's just a glove of my own."
"Didn't know you wore gloves with a leather as soft as that."
"No? Well, that story I was speaking about runs something like this—"
And she told him a gay narrative, throwing all her spirit into it, for she was an admirable mimic. He met her spirit more than half-way, laughing gaily; and so they reached the end of the story and the end of the meal at the same time. She cleared away the pans with a few motions and tossed them clattering into a corner. Neat housekeeping was not numbered among the many virtues of Jacqueline.
"Now," said Pierre, leaning back against the wall, "we'll hear about that glove."