Mellenger sighed. “Have you ever suspected she might be?”
“That sounds presumptuous, Mel. Of course, once in a while——”
“You have suspected it but have banished the suspicion. . . . You’re very comfortable here; you’re rich and getting richer; you have a yearning to chuck business one day and woo art.” He stared again at the fire and sipped at his cocktail. “The victim of a suppressed artistic desire is loath to give hostages to fortune in the way of a wife and children. Good Lord, I’ve written a trunkful of short stories and novels that haven’t sold; I have never been satisfied with one of them, and until I am satisfied I have planned to remain single and live in a hotel. . . . Everybody in town in your set knows how Maisie Morrison feels toward you. Your indifference constitutes a choice topic of conversation among the tea tabbies.”
“You are a mine of information, Mel.”
“I get it from our society editor. She knows all the gossip.”
“Oh!”
“Ever consider marrying Miss Morrison, Dan?”
“Yes, I have.”
“He who hesitates is lost, my friend.”
Dan’s face had suddenly gone haggard. “I must not hesitate,” he murmured, “or I may be lost.”