"Hi." She went over to a glass-topped coffee table and opened a cigarette box. "Thanks for coming."
"No thanks needed," he said. "Could be you'll help me more than I will you."
She looked at him for a moment, and he realized it had been a tactless answer with too many unwanted implications. But then she picked up a cigarette and flicked a lighter to it. "Drink?" she asked.
"Well—you drink too much, pony."
"Perhaps you don't drink enough," she said.
"I like the taste. I don't like being drunk."
"You're afraid to lose control, aren't you? Sometimes, Bob, I think that explains you. To you, life is a ride on a tiger, and you've got to keep the reins every minute."
"Let's have none of these bad amateur psychoanalyses," he said, following her into the kitchen. He came up behind her and laid his hands on her waist. "And let's not fight. I'm sorry, Marge. I'm sorry for Bruce and for you."
Her head bent. "I know, Bob. Don't bother with words." She put the cigarette to her lips, took a puff of smoke, blew it out, lowered the cigarette, and twisted about between his hands. Her lips brushed his cheek. "Go on, I'll mix. I want to keep busy."
He returned to the living room and prowled out his unrest for a few minutes. The piano caught his gaze, he saw ruled bescribbled sheets and went over to look. Margery found him thus, when she came in with two glasses. "Sit down," she invited.