of late that their growing intimacy might handicap him if openly commented on. But now she must see him daily, or speak to him. In the huge house on Lake Shore Drive her own rooms—sitting room, bedroom, dressing room, bath—were as detached as though she occupied a separate apartment. Her telephone was a private wire leading only to her own bedroom. She called him the first thing in the morning; the last thing at night. Her voice, when she spoke to him, was an organ transformed; low, vibrant, with a timbre in its tone that would have made it unrecognizable to an outsider. Her words were commonplace enough, but pregnant and meaningful for her.
“What did you do to-day? Did you have a good day?. . . Why didn’t you call me?. . . Did you follow up that suggestion you made about Kennedy? I think it’s a wonderful idea, don’t you? You’re a wonderful man, Dirk; did you know that?. . . I miss you. . . Do you? . . . When?. . . Why not lunch?. . . Oh, not if you have a business appointment. . . How about five o'clock?. . . No, not there. . . Oh, I don’t know. It’s so public. . . Yes. . . Good-bye. . . Good-night. . . Good-night.. . .”
They began to meet rather furtively, in out-of-the-way places. They would lunch in department store restaurants where none of their friends ever came. They spent off afternoon hours in the dim, close atmosphere of the motion picture palaces, sitting in the
