“Isn’t it?” she gleamed.
“Let’s have another motor-ride to-morrow afternoon.”
“I can’t, honey. It’s matinée day.”
“We’ll get up early and go in the morning, then.”
“Oh, but I’ve got to sleep as late as I can, honey! It’s a hard day for me.”
The next morning they had breakfast served in their apartment at twelve o’clock. She called it breakfast. It was lunch for Bret.
He had stolen out of the darkened room at eight and gone down to his breakfast in the cafe. He had dawdled about the town, buying her flowers and gifts. When he got back at eleven she was still asleep. She looked as if she had been drowned.
He sat in the dim light till it was time to call her. They were eating grapefruit out of the same spoon when the telephone rang. A gruff voice greeted Bret:
“Is this Mr. Winfield?”
“Yes. Who are you?”