“Henry,” she said, “I shall never wear these again.”
“That's silly, Sue.”
“No. It isn't silly. I've got a job now. That's what we need, all of us—a job. You used to tell me that yourself. You were right.” She was turning the costumes over with her slim hands. “Did you find a pair of boots, Henry? Red leather with clicks in the heels? They should have been with these Russian things.”
“No,” he replied, with a sudden huskiness, “I didn't see them.”
“That's odd. They were right with the others.” She turned away to give rooms and closets a final scrutiny. She brought a rough parcel in from the hall, feeling it with her hands.
“This yours or mine, Henry?” she asked. “I could swear it is those boots, but—”
“It is the boots!” he cried, like an angry man.
She stared. He waved them and her roughly aside.
“They belong to you, not to me. I lied to you! Take them! Pack them!”
Brows knit, puzzled, her sensitive mouth softening painfully, she opened the parcel and looked at the red boots—looked more closely, held them up to the light; for she saw on them small round stains of a paler red. Slowly she raised her eyes until they met his.