“Yes, it’s too bad I’ve got to go. New York will be like an oven.”
“Put it off.”
“I can’t, I’m afraid. I’ve a fitting.”
Archie argued no further. He was a married man of old enough standing to know the importance of fittings.
“Besides,” said Lucille, “I want to see father.” Archie repressed an exclamation of astonishment. “I’ll be back to-morrow evening. You will be perfectly happy.”
“Queen of my soul, you know I can’t be happy with you away. You know—”
“Yes?” murmured Lucille, appreciatively. She never tired of hearing Archie say this sort of thing.
Archie’s voice had trailed off. He was looking across the room.
“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “What an awfully pretty woman!”
“Where?”