“Not much.”
“I think I’ll call it a day and go home,” said Mamise.
“Better call it a quarter and go to New York or Palm Beach or somewhere where there’s a little gaiety.”
“Are you sick of seeing me round?”
“Since you won’t marry me––yes.”
Mamise sniffed at this and set her little desk in order, aligned the pencils in the tray, put the carbons back in the box and the rubber cover on the typewriter. Then she sank it into its well and put on her hat.
Davidge held her heavy coat for her and could not resist the opportunity to fold her into his arms. Just as his arms closed about her and he opened his lips to beg her not to desert him he saw over her shoulder the door opening.
He had barely time to release her and pretend to be still holding her coat when Miss Gabus entered. His elaborate guiltlessness confirmed her bitterest suspicions, and she crossed the room to deposit a sheaf of letters in Davidge’s “in” basket and gather up the letters in his “out” basket. She passed across the stage with an effect of absolute refrigeration, like one of Richard III’s ghosts.
Davidge was furious at Miss Gabus and himself. Mamise was furious at them both––partly for the awkwardness of the incident, partly for the failure of Davidge’s enterprise against her lips.
When Miss Gabus was gone the ecstatic momentum was lost. Davidge grumbled: