“Did you get lost?” he inquired politely.
I didn’t resent that because I knew he half meant it. He has got to the point where he can’t quite understand how a man can drive from 35th Street and Tenth Avenue to 44th and Lexington and back again with nobody to lead the way. I reported no wilting, and sat at my desk and ran through the stuff he had put there, and then swiveled to face him and said:
“I’m thinking of getting married.”
His half-open lids didn’t move, but his eyes did, and I saw them.
“We might as well be frank,” I said. “I’ve been living in this house with you for over ten years, writing your letters, protecting you from bodily harm, keeping you awake, and wearing out your tires and my shoes. Sooner or later one of my threats to get married will turn out not to be a gag. How are you going to know? How do you know this isn’t it?”
He made a noise of derision and picked up his glass.
“Okay,” I said. “But you’re enough of a psychologist to know what it means when a man is irresistibly impelled to talk about a girl to someone. Preferably, of course, to someone who is sympathetic. You can imagine what it means when I want to talk about her to you. What is uppermost in my mind is that this afternoon I saw her washing her feet.”
He put the glass down. “So you went to a movie. In the afternoon. Did it occur—”
“No, sir, not a movie. Flesh and bone and skin. Have you ever been to a flower show?”
Wolfe closed his eyes and sighed.