“Well, I was thinking some of going to the movies. Yes, I really think I ought to get out and get some fresh air.”
She did not encourage him to stay, but never did she discourage him. He considered, “I better take a sneak! She will let me stay—there is something doing—and I mustn’t get mixed up with— I mustn’t— I’ve got to beat it.” Then, “No, it’s too late now.”
Suddenly, at seven, brushing her cigarette away, brusquely taking her hand:
“Tanis! Stop teasing me! You know we— Here we are, a couple of lonely birds, and we’re awful happy together. Anyway I am! Never been so happy! Do let me stay! I’ll gallop down to the delicatessen and buy some stuff—cold chicken maybe—or cold turkey—and we can have a nice little supper, and afterwards, if you want to chase me out, I’ll be good and go like a lamb.”
“Well—yes—it would be nice,” she said.
Nor did she withdraw her hand. He squeezed it, trembling, and blundered toward his coat. At the delicatessen he bought preposterous stores of food, chosen on the principle of expensiveness. From the drug store across the street he telephoned to his wife, “Got to get a fellow to sign a lease before he leaves town on the midnight. Won’t be home till late. Don’t wait up for me. Kiss Tinka good-night.” He expectantly lumbered back to the flat.
“Oh, you bad thing, to buy so much food!” was her greeting, and her voice was gay, her smile acceptant.
He helped her in the tiny white kitchen; he washed the lettuce, he opened the olive bottle. She ordered him to set the table, and as he trotted into the living-room, as he hunted through the buffet for knives and forks, he felt utterly at home.
“Now the only other thing,” he announced, “is what you’re going to wear. I can’t decide whether you’re to put on your swellest evening gown, or let your hair down and put on short skirts and make-believe you’re a little girl.”
“I’m going to dine just as I am, in this old chiffon rag, and if you can’t stand poor Tanis that way, you can go to the club for dinner!”