"As long as there are people," he said philosophically, "there'll be talk."
"But it's the air! Why don't they talk about that? The air is stale, I'm positive. It's not nourishing. The air is stale and Andrew, Curt, Norman and Alphonse couldn't stand it. Poor Alphonse. He was never so healthy as on the day he was born. From then on things got steadily worse for him."
"I don't seem to mind the air."
She threw up her hands. "You'd be the worst of the lot!" She left the table, rustling and tinkling about the room. "I can just hear them. Try some of the asparagus. Five. That's what they'd say. That woman did it again. And the plain fact is I don't want you on my record."
"Really," Fownes protested. "I feel splendid. Never better."
He could hear her moving about and then felt her hands on his shoulders. "And what about those very elaborate plans you've been making to seduce me?"
Fownes froze with three asparagus hanging from his fork.
"Don't you think they'll find out? I found out and you can bet they will. It's my fault, I guess. I talk too much. And I don't always tell the truth. To be completely honest with you, Mr. Fownes, it wasn't the old customs at all standing between us, it was air. I can't have another man die on me, it's bad for my self-esteem. And now you've gone and done something good and criminal, something peculiar."
Fownes put his fork down. "Dear Mrs. Deshazaway," he started to say.