She sighed, staring at him. She was small and dark and well put together, and didn't look at all like a woman who could devote every conscious hour to the house. But she was.
"Ogling," she said.
"Oh, Ann—you'd think I was—" He shook his head.
"You are. Infidelity can be mental, I read somewhere."
"You read?"
"Don't be superior. I was looking up a recipe in Maitland's magazine, I think, and I saw the picture of this man staring, as you just were, and—"
"You've answered my question," he interrupted. "Ann, I love you."
"Well, that's a strange way to show it, I must say, just eating that divorcee with your eyes. You should have a job, something to do. You've too much energy to just sit around like this, Ted."
Ted sighed. At thirty-nine, he had retired. At sixteen, he'd thought he was the new Bellows, having facility with a brush and being no slouch with the horsehide. The St. Paul Saints had shattered the baseball dream, and Ted's own objective self appraisal had killed the Bellows hope.