There used to be a street. That wasn’t any more. Upstairs there was only his apartment, with every piece of correct furniture just so, with every proper picture just so, every cushion rigid, every piece of china, every vase as the interior decorator had planned it. He was living in an interior decorator’s apartment! Etta’s doing.
Etta herself, his wife, composed of a pretty face, a carefully, painfully, pretty face, of just so much obedient, matter-of-fact sex, so much wifely devotion, solicitude:
“Dearie, you’re so tired!” Every day.... “Here, let me get the girl to make you a nice hot cup of tea.”
There used to be a melody.... In the beginning he had attempted to get Etta to sing. She had replied:
“Oh, I don’t know! Too much trouble. Lessons and everything. Of course, if I was a single girl it would be nice to learn and get a job in a show or in vaudeville. But ain’t I got the best husband in the world to take care of me now?”
Well, she didn’t understand! Emmanuel watched the things in the office, he watched himself seated at the desk of E. Manfred Woll, M.D. Funny, that was!
Etta came in. As usual:
“Am I disturbing you, dear?”
He didn’t reply. She would come in, anyway. She seated herself on the edge of his desk, her pretty legs two silken flashes as they rocked. She toyed with his paper knife, the self-consciously ornamental onyx knife, her gift.
“That car salesman is going to come around to-morrow. What shall I tell him?”