"Good afternoon."
Mrs. Fosdick answered with equal ice: "Good afternoon. Won't you sit down?"
"Thanks. Very picturesque scenery, isn't it?"
"Isn't it?" Fosdick seated himself, looked about cautiously, noted that Mrs. Whitcomb was apparently absorbed in her letter, then lowered his voice confidentially. His face kept up a strained pretense of indifference, but his whisper was passionate with longing:
"Has my poor little wifey missed her poor old hubby?"
"Oh, so much!" she whispered. "Has poor little hubby missed his poor old wife?"
"Horribly. Was she lonesome in that dismal stateroom all by herself?"
"Oh, so miserable! I can't stand it much longer."
Fosdick's face blazed with good news: "In just a little while we come to the Utah line—then we're safe."
"God bless Utah!"