“It is rather sweet.” Her voice had the gentleness of water running into water. Her eyes looked at him once and left him deliberately but not as if they didn't care. It must have been a love-match in the beginning then—her eyes seemed so infirm.
“You'll read a little?”
“Yes.”
“Home,” he said. He seemed queerly satisfied to say the word, queerly moved as if even after so much reality had been lived through together, he couldn't quite believe that it was reality.
“And I've been waiting for it—five days, six days, this time?”
She must have been at the seashore after all—tan or lack of it meant little these days, especially to a woman who lived in this kind of an apartment. The third conclusion might have been rather sentimental, a title out of a moving picture—something about Even in the Wastes of the Giant City the Weary Heart Will Always Turn To—Just Home.
A doll on a small table began to buzz mysteriously in its internals. The man released the woman's hand—both looking deeply annoyed.
“I thought we had a private number here,” said the man, the tiredness coming back into his face like scribbles on parchment.
She crossed to the telephone with a charming furtiveness—you could see she was playing they had just been found behind the piano together in a game of hide-and-seek. The doll was disembowelled of its telephone.
“No—No—Oh very well—”