"You live with your sisters, don't you?" he asked.
"Yes."
He planted his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, his head on his hands, apparently buried in thought.
After a little while: "C. Bailey, Junior," she ventured, "you must not let me keep you too long."
"What?" He lifted his head.
"You are on your way to the opera, aren't you?"
"Am I? That's so.... I'd rather stay here if you'll let me."
"But the opera!" she protested with emphasis.
"What do I care for the opera?"
"Don't you?"