“Sure I did! Course I did!”
“George! What is it?”
“Oh, I’m kind of tired, I guess. Been pounding pretty hard at the office. Need to get away and rest up a little.”
“Well, we’re going to Maine in just a few weeks now, dear.”
“Yuh—” Then he was pouring it out nakedly, robbed of reticence. “Myra: I think it’d be a good thing for me to get up there early.”
“But you have this man you have to meet in New York about business.”
“What man? Oh, sure. Him. Oh, that’s all off. But I want to hit Maine early—get in a little fishing, catch me a big trout, by golly!” A nervous, artificial laugh.
“Well, why don’t we do it? Verona and Matilda can run the house between them, and you and I can go any time, if you think we can afford it.”
“But that’s— I’ve been feeling so jumpy lately, I thought maybe it might be a good thing if I kind of got off by myself and sweat it out of me.”
“George! Don’t you want me to go along?” She was too wretchedly in earnest to be tragic, or gloriously insulted, or anything save dumpy and defenseless and flushed to the red steaminess of a boiled beet.