No one contradicted him.
“It was only,” he went on, “that I wanted to ask Mr. Goodwin something before going up for my nap.” His eyes settled on me. “Did you know when you opened that window that sudden cold drafts are dangerous for tropical monkeys?”
His tone was more than mild, it was wistful. But something about him — I didn’t know what and didn’t ask for time out to go into it — got my goat.
“Sure,” I said cheerfully. “I was trying it out.”
“That was thoughtless,” he said, not complaining, just giving his modest opinion, and turned and trotted out of the room.
There was a strained silence. Pat Lowell reached for the pot to pour some coffee.
“Goodwin, God help you,” Pete Jordan muttered.
“Why? Does he sting?”
“Don’t ask me why, but watch your step. I think he’s a kobold.” He tossed his paper napkin onto the table. “Want to see an artist create? Come and look.” He marched to one of the radios and turned it on, then to a drawing table and sat.
“I’ll clean up,” Pat Lowell offered.