“Good afternoon, Bowser,” he said pleasantly.
“Good afternoon, Bowser,” she returned. They had agreed that in business hours they would be strictly businesslike.
“No Sentiment Between Nine and Five,” he had proposed as, on their honeymoon, they motored through New England looking for billboard sites. And she had agreed heartily.
They hung up the “Quiet, please” sign outside and sat in mouse-toned chairs at a mouse-toned table. Mr. Bowser spread out a sheaf of memos.
“I brought the correspondence in this matter,” he explained.
“Bowser,” said his wife, “I want to say right here and now that I won’t stand for one of your coined names for my baby. I want to christen him John.” She glanced at a list. “Yubar,” she said disdainfully. “Sounds like a varnish.”
“It strikes me,” said Mr. Bowser with dignity, “that Yubar is an especially distinctive name.”
“Yes, for a varnish,” flashed Mrs. Bowser. “But our son is not a varnish.”
The masculine Bowser frowned, then spoke in a low-pitched voice:
“You are getting excited, Bowser. You are raising your voice. Permit me to remind you that this is the Quiet Room, not the smoking room at the Jill Club.”