“All right, Artie,” — she knew how the nickname annoyed him — “if that’s the way you want it. As you say, I’ve got nothing to gain.” She started for the door. “Finish up those envelopes. I’m going to get my bag.”
“Anything in the house for lunch?” He had reconnoitered the kitchen before breakfast and knew there was not.
“A truce doesn’t mean I’m going to start cooking for you.”
“I didn’t expect it. But as long as I have to go out to eat, I’ll drop you wherever you want to go.”
“Well, that’s mighty white of you.” The sarcasm in her voice did not entirely disguise her surprise. But she was herself very quickly. “Finish those envelopes.”
He started on the second one, as her voice came from her room. “And don’t seal them up. I’ll take care of that.”
Obviously her suspicions were not entirely allayed. This might be more difficult than he had expected. But these letters could not be mailed. If they were, it would be impossible to go ahead with his plan.
He had finished addressing the envelopes when she came back into the room, and while he put on a necktie and got into his jacket, she glanced at each letter, inserted it in its envelope, sealed it, and affixed the airmail stamps she had brought with her. When she had done all five, she put them in her bag and went downstairs.
He took the other set of letters from his pocket, quickly sealed and stamped them, and followed her. She was standing before the mirror in the hall, giving her lips a final going-over, which would take at least a couple of minutes; her bag stood on the table beside her. Conway wandered into the kitchen, poured a glass of water from the bottle that was kept in the refrigerator, and slammed the glass to the floor. It broke into a hundred pieces, the water splashed all over, and the crash brought her to the door of the kitchen.
“Now what?”