“You imitate Creevy’s cracked contralto voice,” said Annan. “I didn’t know you were a mimic, Eris.”
“Didn’t you?” And she laughed adorably. Then, suddenly, Ratford Creevy’s high-pitched, irritated voice came again from her lips: “‘Everybody! Everybody! Yaas, you, too, you poor dumbbell! Get on there.... Eris! Eris! My Gawd, where’s that amateur!... Well, where were you?... Well, stand up next time.... Lights!... Hey, where’s that amateur camera-man.... Where the hell’s Shunk? Emil! Emil!——’”
His laughter and her own checked her and she leaned back, the stills sliding from her lap to the floor.
Together they squatted down like two children to gather the litter of scattered photographs, interrupting to touch lips, lightly; and finally he dumped the stills onto a table and drew her to the lounge and gathered her close.
“You know, sweet, the reasonable goal of real love is marriage. Don’t you know that?”
“Darling!”
“Isn’t it?”
She looked at him uncertainly.
“Isn’t it?” he insisted.
“Sometimes.”