“Watch me,” he boasted, impaling the tender, roasted bird and shaving a smoking slice from its sternum.
“Wonderful,” she murmured, clasping her snowy fingers; “he knows everything, does everything. And he asks me where it places him!... It places you, darling, like a god, under lock and key inside the secret shrine of my innermost heart.”
“No,” he said, “that temple is already reserved. It’s occupied by the real and only god you worship.... The god of Work!”
After a moment she raised her eyes, tenderly apprehensive:
“I do love you, Barry.”
“But you worship the other one.... You can’t serve two gods.”
“I worship you, too, whatever you say!”
“I’m a minor deity compared to the great god Work.”
“Darling—don’t speak that way—even in jest——”
“I want a shrine for myself. I won’t interfere with the other god——”