"Exactly?"
"Well—within a few lines. And not just this afternoon. It takes days. My wife is up in the country. We were having the house repapered and repainted. Every time I found a quiet corner and started to cut bleeding syllables from my precious prose, some damned craftsman with a mustache like a character in Midsummer Night's Dream spilled paste on my back. So, finally, I scrammed down here. If my wife had known I would have to put in more days on the serial—she'd have postponed the rural clowns. But, not knowing, and with artisans so touchy about their schedules—"
"Don't tell me!" she exclaimed. "We just had the house in Pasadena done over!" Her eyes faded. "For what?" She murked about inside herself briefly. "I'd like very much to go out with you—if you really want me to. On one condition."
"I know."
She turned quickly, unbelievingly. "You do not!"
"Bet?"
"Bet you flowers for me tonight."
"Generous wager, I must say. Indecently feminine! Okay. Promise to admit it—if I have the right answer? No hedging?"
"Promise."
"You'll go out—on condition I won't make a pass at you."