“Now is that nice?” he queried, in tones of mock-reproach. “Daddy’ll do anything for you—anything you want.”
“I’m not taking things from men this year,” she replied.
“Isn’t she smart—keeps count of the years ’n’ everything,” he said. “You’ll stop counting when you get to be thirty, old dear.”
“Is that the place where you stopped?” she asked.
Campbell winced secretly—he was thirty-five and not particularly elated about it. Blanche always talked better under the influence of liquor—it loosened her tongue and unearthed an effervescence in her mind: keen as far as it went.
“Take that knife away, Annette;—it’s killing me,” he responded, in quavering, melodramatic tones.
Blanche took another sip from her highball.
“D’y’know, I may get crazy some time and ask you to marry me,” he said.
“That’s too bad—it must be worrying you a lot,” answered Blanche. “I never lose my head that way, so look out.”
“But really, I’m strong for you,” he went on. “It’s all in fun most of the time with me, but you’re at the top of the list.”