Ann stared at him, smiling. Henri stared at him, smirking. They went back to their discussion.
What weapons did he have? He sat there while the talk poured over him, turning into a wrathful midget, hating them both.
At two, he rose, from the table, "I ... have a golf date. Hate to leave you two alone."
"We'll try to get along, old boy," Henri said smilingly. "Keep your eye on the ball."
Ann said, "Easy at the nineteenth hole, honey." She lifted her lips for his kiss.
They were soft and cool.
He didn't have a golf date. He didn't want to leave them. But he couldn't sit there, growing smaller and duller by the minute. He was an artist and an athlete, not a worm.
He drove to the country club, and sat at the bar. Pete Orcutt and Johnny Devlin came in about three-thirty, and they settled down in the card room to some canasta.
Pete said, "Henri's in town. Done the Blair's place for them."