“He owns a house—huge, ugly thing—on the other side of Corydon.”
“Um! I think I’ve heard of it,” she replied indifferently.
She drew from her sweater pocket and spread on the table these articles: a tiny vanity box, a silver-backed memorandum book, two caramels and the stub of a lead-pencil. There was a monogram on the vanity box, and remembering this she returned it quickly to her pocket. He watched her write the Senator’s name in her book, in the same vertical hand in which the note making the appointment had been written. She lifted her head, narrowing her eyes with the stress of thought.
“If a man has a wife we ought to include her, perhaps.”
Farrington threw back his head and laughed.
“Seems to me his wife’s divorcing him—or the other way round. The press has been featuring them lately.”
“Representative of regrettable tendency in American life,” she murmured. “They go down as Mr. and Mrs.”
“Now it’s your turn,” he said.
“Suppose we put in a gay and cheerful character now to offset the Senator. I was reading the other day about the eccentric Miss Sallie Collingwood, of Portland, Maine; she’s rich enough to own a fleet of yachts, but she cruises up and down the coast in a disreputable old schooner—has a mariner’s license and smokes a pipe. Is she selected?”
“I can’t believe there’s anybody so worth while on earth!”