“What was it?”
She smiled.
“Is this the Eclair Picture Palace?” she mimicked. [Illustration: THE TIREDNESS THAT HAD BEEN IN THE MAN'S FACE BEGAN TO LEAVE IT] Both seemed almost childishly relieved. So in spite of his successful-business-man mouth, he wasn't the kind that is less a husband than a telephone-receiver, especially at home. Still, she would have made a difference even to telephone-receivers, that could be felt even without the usual complement of senses.
“That was—bothersome for a minute.” His tone lent the words a quaint accent of scare.
“Oh, well—if you have one at all—the way the service is now—”
“There won't be any telephone when we take our vacation together, that's settled.”
She had been kneeling, examining a bookcase for books. Now she turned with one in her hand, her hair ruddy and smooth as ruddy amber in the reflected light.
“No, but telegrams. And wireless,” she whispered mockingly, the more mockingly because it so obviously made him worried as a worried boy. She came over and stood smoothing his ear a moment, a half-unconscious customary gesture, no doubt, for he relaxed under it and the look of rest came back. Then she went to her chair, sat down and opened the book.
“No use borrowing trouble now, dear. Now listen. Cigar?” “Going.”
“Ashtray?”