Bruce never knew when Henderson was serious, and when a diminutive young lady ran downstairs whistling he assumed that he was about to be introduced to the daughter of the house.
“Dale, this is old Bruce Storrs, one of the meanest men out of jail. I know you’ll hate each other; that’s why I brought him. At the first sign of any flirtation between you two I’ll run you both through the meat chopper and take a high dive into the adjacent stream.”
Mrs. Freeman was absurdly small and slight, and the short skirt of her simple linen dress and her bobbed hair exaggerated her diminutive stature. Having gathered from Henderson an idea that Mrs. Freeman was an assertive masculine person, Bruce was taken aback as the little woman smiled up at him and shook hands.
“It really isn’t my fault that I broke in,” he protested. “It was this awful Henderson person who told me you’d be heart-broken if I didn’t come.”
“I should have been! He’d have come alone and bored me to death. How is every little thing, Bud?”
“Soaring!” mumbled Henderson, who had chosen a book from the rack on the table and, sprawling on a couch, became immediately absorbed in it.
“That’s the way Bud shows his noble breeding,” remarked Mrs. Freeman, “but he is an easy guest to entertain. I suppose you’re used to him?”
“Oh, we lived together for a couple of years! Nothing he does astonishes me.”
“Then I needn’t apologize for him. Bud’s an acquired taste, but once you know him, he’s highly diverting.”
“When I began rooming with him in Boston I thought he wasn’t all there, but finally decided he was at least three-quarters sane.”