Oh, there was no doubt that Louis Latz was in love and with all the delayed fervor of first youth.
There was something rather throat-catching about his treatment of her mother that made Alma want to cry.
He would never tire of marveling, not alone at the wonder of her, but at the wonder that she was his.
"No man has ever been as lucky in women as I have, Carrie," he told her once in Alma's hearing. "It seemed to me that after—my little mother, there couldn't ever be another—and now you! You!"
At the business of sewing some beads on a lamp-shade, Carrie looked up, her eyes dewy.
"And I felt that way about one good husband," she said, "and now I see there could be two."
Alma tiptoed out.
The third month of this, she was allowing Leo Friedlander his two evenings a week. Once to the theater in a modish little sedan car which Leo drove himself. One evening at home in the rose and mauve drawing-room. It delighted Louis and Carrie slyly to have in their friends for poker over the dining-room table these evenings, leaving the young people somewhat indirectly chaperoned until as late as midnight. Louis' attitude with Leo was one of winks, quirks, slaps on the back and the curving voice of innuendo.
"Come on in, Leo, the water's fine!"
"Louis!" This from Alma stung to crimson and not arch enough to feign that she did not understand.