"Tomorrow. Lunch."
"It just won't work—for him."
"Yeah."
"Is he—terribly—?"
"The works. Head-over-heels."
"Oh, dear! Has it been long?"
"Six-seven months."
"Then—it could take him six or seven years to—"
"Some kind of female arithmetic. But probably solid."
"You could call up Hattie and talk to her and find out—"