“Will you marry me, Palla?”
After a long while her stifled whisper came: “You are brutal. Do you think I would do anything else––now?”
“No. And you never would have either.”
Lying there close in his arms, she wondered. And, still wondering, she lifted her head and looked up into 366 his eyes––watching them as they neared her own––still trying to see them as his lips touched hers.
He was the sort of man who got hungry when left too long unfed. It was one o’clock. They had gone out to the refrigerator together, his arm around her supple waist, her charming head against his shoulder––both hungry but sentimental.
“And don’t you really think,” she said for the hundredth time, “that we ought to sell this house?”
“Not a bit of it, darling. We’ll run it if we have to live on cereal and do our own laundry.”
“You mean I’ll have to do that?”
“I’ll help after business hours.”