Vickery sat up on the couch and snapped: “Because she loves you, damn it! I’m madder at her than I am at you.” Then he fell back again, puffing his cigarette spitefully.
Bret smoked slowly at a long cigar. He was thinking long thoughts.
A little later Vickery spoke again: “Besides, Sheila won’t say she wants to go back, for fear it would hurt your feelings.”
Bret took this very seriously. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
Bret smoked his cigar to ash, then he rose with effort and solemnity, went to the door, and called, “Oh, Sheila!”?
From somewhere in the clouds came her voice—the beautiful Sheila voice, “Yes, dear.”
“Come to the stairs a minute, will you?”
“Yes, dear.”
Vickery had risen wonderingly. He could not see Sheila’s nightcapped head as she looked over the balustrade. He did not know that Sheila had been listening to his eulogy of her and agreeing passionately with his regrets at her idleness.