She didn’t want to go, but what could the poor girl do? After I handed her her neckpiece she stood and prolonged it a little, with questions that got answers in one syllable, but finally made the best of it.
When she had gone I proceeded immediately to tell Wolfe what I thought of him. “You couldn’t possibly ask for a better chance,” I protested hotly. “She may not be Miss America 1949, but she’s anything but an eyesore, and she’ll inherit millions, and she’s nuts about you. You could quit work and eat and drink all day. Evenings you could explain how well you understand her, which is apparently all she asks for. You’re hooked at last, and it was about time.” I extended a paw. “Congratulations!”
“Shut up.” He glanced at the clock.
“In a minute. I approve of your lie about expecting a caller. That’s the way to handle it, tease her on with the hard to get—”
“Go to bed. I am expecting a caller.”
I eyed him. “Another one?”
“A man. I’ll let him in. Put this stuff away and go to bed. At once.”
That had happened not more than twice in five years. Once in a while I get sent out of the room, and frequently I am flagged to get off of my phone, when something is supposed to be too profound for me, but practically never am I actually chased upstairs to keep me from even catching a glimpse of a visitor.
“Mr. Jones?” I asked.
“Put this stuff away.”