“Do they? They pity me because I’m married to such a weak fish! Men are nice to you because of me––and there isn’t a woman I’ve met that I have not made afraid of me. Beatrice hasn’t the will power of a slug; you can hand her flattery in chunks as big as boulders and she swallows them without choking. It’s her husband who sees through us.”
“What––the goat tender? Oh, beg pardon––treading on someone else’s toes. Or didn’t they have goats in Michigan?”
“We’ll never hang together another year,” she said, recklessly. “The first chance I have to exchange you for a real man your day is over.”
“You think any one else would marry you?”
“I don’t think. I just go ahead grabbing everything I can, and when a person has to grab for someone else as well as herself it keeps them moving.”
“You’re a crude and impossible little fool.”
Without warning Trudy’s hand shot out, and on Gay’s cheek rested a red mark for the greater part of the evening.
A half hour later he was trying to apologize, having bucked himself up to it with brandy, in order to borrow enough money to play pool with that same evening.