“And I claim, sweetheart,” said Gregg, “that it takes an artist to be that.”
“Oh, no, sweetheart!” said Celia. “Not when they have you for a husband!”
The exchange of hosannahs was interrupted by the arrival of Forbes with the tray.
“Will you take yours straight or in a highball?” Gregg inquired of his guest. “Personally I like good whisky straight. I mean mixing it with water spoils the flavor. I mean whisky like this, it seems like a crime to mix it with water.”
“I’ll have mine straight,” said Bartlett, who would have preferred a highball.
While the drinks were being prepared, he observed his hostess more closely and thought how much more charming she would be if she had used finesse in improving on nature. Her cheeks, her mouth, her eyes, and lashes had been, he guessed, far above the average in beauty before she had begun experimenting with them. And her experiments had been clumsy. She was handsome in spite of her efforts to be handsomer.
“Listen, sweetheart,” said her husband. “One of the servants has been helping himself to this Bourbon. I mean it was a full bottle last night and I only had one little drink out of it. And now it’s less than half full. Who do you suppose has been at it?”
“How do I know, sweetheart? Maybe the groceryman or the iceman or somebody.”
“But you and I and Forbes are the only ones that have a key. I mean it was locked up.”
“Maybe you forgot to lock it.”
“I never do. Well, anyway, Bartlett, here’s a go!”
“Doesn’t Mrs. Gregg indulge?” asked Bartlett.
“Only a cocktail before dinner,” said Celia. “Lou objects to me drinking whisky, and I don’t like it much anyway.”
“I don’t object to you drinking whisky, sweetheart. I just object to you drinking to excess. I mean I think it coarsens a woman to drink. I mean it makes them coarse.”
“Well, there’s no argument, sweetheart. As I say, I don’t care whether I have it or not.”
“It certainly is great Bourbon!” said Bartlett, smacking his lips and putting his glass back on the tray.
“You bet it is!” Gregg agreed. “I mean you can’t buy that kind of stuff anymore. I mean it’s real stuff. You help yourself when you want another. Mr. Bartlett is going to stay all night, sweetheart. I told him he could get a whole lot more of a line on us that way than just interviewing me in the office. I mean I’m tongue-tied when it comes to talking about my work and my success. I mean it’s better to see me out here as I am, in my home, with my family. I mean my home life speaks for itself without me saying a word.”
“But, sweetheart,” said his wife, “what about Mr. Latham?”
“Gosh! I forgot all about him! I must phone and see if I can call it off. That’s terrible! You see,” he explained to Bartlett, “I made a date to go up to Tarrytown tonight, to K. L. Latham’s, the sugar people. We’re going to talk over the new club. We’re going to have a golf club that will make the rest of them look like a toy. I mean a real golf club! They want me to kind of run it. And I was to go up there tonight and talk it over. I’ll phone and see if I can postpone it.”
“Oh, don’t postpone it on my account!” urged Bartlett. “I can come out again some other time, or I can see you in town.”
“I don’t see how you can postpone it, sweetheart,” said Celia. “Didn’t he say old Mr. King was coming over from White Plains? They’ll be mad at you if you don’t go.”
“I’m afraid they would resent it, sweetheart. Well, I’ll tell you. You can entertain Mr. Bartlett and I’ll go up there right after dinner and come back as soon as I can. And Bartlett and I can talk when I get back. I mean we can talk when I get back. How is that?”
“That suits me,” said Bartlett.
“I’ll be as entertaining as I can,” said Celia, “but I’m afraid that isn’t very entertaining. However, if I’m too much of a bore, there’s plenty to read.”
“No danger of my being bored,” said Bartlett.
“Well, that’s all fixed then,” said the relieved host. “I hope you’ll excuse me running away. But I don’t see how I can get out of it. I mean with old King coming over from White Plains. I mean he’s an old man. But listen, sweetheart—where are the kiddies? Mr. Bartlett wants to see them.”
“Yes, indeed!” agreed the visitor.
“Of course you’d say so!” Celia said. “But we are proud of them! I suppose all parents are the same. They all think their own children are the only children in the world. Isn’t that so, Mr. Bartlett? Or haven’t you any children?”
“I’m sorry to say I’m not married.”
“Oh, you poor thing! We pity him, don’t we, sweetheart? But why aren’t you, Mr. Bartlett? Don’t tell me you’re a woman hater!”
“Not now, anyway,” said the gallant Bartlett.
“Do you get that, sweetheart? He’s paying you a pretty compliment.”
“I heard it, sweetheart. And now I’m sure he’s a flatterer. But I must hurry and get the children before Hortense puts them to bed.”
“Well,” said Gregg when his wife had left the room, “would you say she’s changed?”
“A little, and for the better. She’s more than fulfilled her early promise.”
“I think so,” said Gregg. “I mean I think she was a beautiful girl and now she’s an even more beautiful woman. I mean wifehood and maternity have given her a kind of a—well, you know—I mean a kind of a pose. I mean a pose. How about another drink?”
They were emptying their glasses when Celia returned with two of her little girls.
“The baby’s in bed and I was afraid to ask Hortense to get her up again. But you’ll see her in the morning. This is Norma and this is Grace. Girls, this is Mr. Bartlett.”
The girls received
