"In our six years of married life," she went on, "he talked of nothing but duck fodder, carload lots, trade discounts, selling points, bran, turnover——"
How futile, how inadequate seem mere words in some situations. Mr. Pottle said nothing; timidly he took her hand in his; she did not draw it away.
"And he only shaved on Saturday nights," she said.
Mr. Pottle's free hand went to his own face, smooth as steel and art could make it.
"Blossom," he began huskily, "have you ever thought of marrying again?"
"I have," she answered, blushing—his hand on hers tightened—"and I haven't," she finished.
"Oh, Blossom——" he began once more.
"If I do marry again," she interrupted, "it will be a literary man."
"A literary man?" His tone was aghast. "A writing fella?"
"Oh, not necessarily a writer," she said. "They usually live in garrets, and I shouldn't like that. I mean a man who has read all sorts of books, and who can talk about all sorts of things."