Part 2 (1/2)

”Bring the papers?” she said, taking it.

She preceded him along the narrow hall to the living-room, where he let himself slowly down into his big chair, with a sound between a sigh and a groan. She sat opposite him, on the davenport. Again they smiled brightly at each other.

”Well, what have you been doing with yourself today?” he inquired.

She had been expecting the question. She had planned before he came in, how she would tell him all the little events of her day-how the woman in the grocer's shop had had an argument with the cas.h.i.+er, and how Delia had tried out a new salad for lunch with but moderate success, and how Alice Marshall had come to tea and it was quite true that Norma Matthews was going to have another baby. She had woven them into a lively little narrative, carefully choosing amusing phrases of description; had felt that she was going to tell it well and with spirit, and that he might laugh at the account of the occurrence in the grocer's. But now, as she considered it, it seemed to her a long, dull story. She had not the energy to begin it. And he was already smoothing out his paper.

”Oh, nothing,” she said, with a gay little laugh. ”Did you have a nice day?”

”Why-” he began. He had had some idea of telling her how he had finally put through that Detroit thing, and how tickled J. G. had seemed to be about it. But his interest waned, even as he started to speak. Besides, she was engrossed in breaking off a loose thread from the wool fringe on one of the pillows beside her.

”Oh, pretty fair,” he said.

”Tired?” she asked.

”Not so much,” he answered. ”Why-want to do anything tonight?”

”Why, not unless you do,” she said, brightly. ”Whatever you say.”

”Whatever you say,” he corrected her.

The subject closed. There was a third exchange of smiles, and then he hid most of himself behind his paper.

Mrs. Weldon, too, turned to the newspaper. But it was an off night for news-a long speech of somebody's, a plan for a garbage dump, a proposed dirigible, a four-day-old murder mystery. No one she knew had died or become engaged or married, or had attended any social functions. The fas.h.i.+ons depicted on the woman's page were for Miss Fourteen-to-Sixteen. The advertis.e.m.e.nts ran mostly to bread, and sauces, and men's clothes and sales of kitchen utensils. She put the paper down.

She wondered how Ernest could get so much enjoyment out of a newspaper. He could occupy himself with one for almost an hour, and then pick up another and go all through the same news with unabated interest. She wished that she could. She wished, even more than that, that she could think of something to say. She glanced around the room for inspiration.

”See my pretty daffy-down-dillies?” she said, finding it. To anyone else, she would have referred to them as daffodils.

Mr. Weldon looked in the direction of the flowers.

”M-m-mm,” he said in admission, and returned to the news.

She looked at him, and shook her head despondently. He did not see, behind the paper; nor did she see that he was not reading. He was waiting, his hands gripping the printed sheet till their knuckles were blue-white, for her next remark.

It came.

”I love flowers,” she said, in one of her little rushes of confidence.

Her husband did not answer. He sighed, his grip relaxed, and he went on reading.

Mrs. Weldon searched the room for another suggestion.

”Ernie,” she said, ”I'm so comfortable. Wouldn't you like to get up and get my handkerchief off the piano for me?”

He rose instantly. ”Why, certainly,” he said.

The way to ask people to fetch handkerchiefs, he thought as he went back to his chair, was to ask them to do it, and not try to make them think that you were giving them a treat. Either come right out and ask them, would they or wouldn't they, or else get up and get your handkerchief yourself.

”Thank you ever so much,” his wife said with enthusiasm.

Delia appeared in the doorway. ”Dinner,” she murmured bashfully, as if it were not quite a nice word for a young woman to use, and vanished.

”Dinner, Ern,” cried Mrs. Weldon gaily, getting up.

”Just minute,” issued indistinctly from behind the newspaper.

Mrs. Weldon waited. Then her lips compressed, and she went over and playfully took the paper from her husband's hands. She smiled carefully at him, and he smiled back at her.

”You go ahead in,” he said, rising. ”I'll be right with you. I've just got to wash up.”

She looked after him, and something like a volcanic eruption took place within her. You'd think that just one night-just one little night-he might go and wash before dinner was announced. Just one night-it didn't seem much to ask. But she said nothing. G.o.d knew it was aggravating, but after all, it wasn't worth the trouble of fussing about.

She was waiting, cheerful and bright, courteously refraining from beginning her soup, when he took his place at the table.

”Oh, tomato soup, eh?” he said.

”Yes,” she answered. ”You like it, don't you?”

”Who-me?” he said. ”Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.”

She smiled at him.

”Yes, I thought you liked it,” she said.

”You like it, too, don't you?” he inquired.

”Oh, yes,” she a.s.sured him. ”Yes, I like it ever so much. I'm awfully fond of tomato soup.”

”Yes,” he said, ”there's nothing much better than tomato soup on a cold night.”

She nodded.

”I think it's nice, too,” she confided.

They had had tomato soup for dinner probably three times a month during their married life.

The soup was finished, and Delia brought in the meat.

”Well, that looks pretty good,” said Mr. Weldon, carving it. ”We haven't had steak for a long time.”

”Why, yes, we have, too, Ern,” his wife said eagerly. ”We had it-let me see, what night were the Baileys here?-we had it Wednesday night-no, Thursday night. Don't you remember?”

”Did we?” he said. ”Yes, I guess you're right. It seemed longer, somehow.”

Mrs. Weldon smiled politely. She could not think of any way to prolong the discussion.

What did married people talk about, anyway, when they were alone together? She had seen married couples-not dubious ones but people she really knew were husbands and wives-at the theater or in trains, talking together as animatedly as if they were just acquaintances. She always watched them, marvelingly, wondering what on earth they found to say.