"Well, then,—a harp. That's sometimes a pleasant sight."
"A harp needs an express wagon. Though of course it is pretty for the arms."
"Arms? Let me see. The violin?"
"Of course. And that's probably the very first thing you thought of. Why not have mentioned it?"
"I suppose I've been taught the duty of making conversation."
"The duty? Not the pleasure?"
"That remains to be . . ." He paused. "So she has arms," he pretended to muse. "I confess I hadn't quite noticed."
"She passed you a cup of tea, didn't she?"
"Oh, surely. And a sandwich. And another. And a slice of layer cake, with a fork. And another cup of tea. And a macaroon or two——"
"Am I a glutton?"
"Am I? Some of all that provender was for me, as I recall."
They were still side by side on the sofa. Both were cross-kneed, and the tip of her russet boot almost grazed that of his Oxford tie. He did not notice: he was already arranging the first paragraph of a letter to a friend in Winnebago, Wisconsin. "Dear Arthur: I called,—as I said I was going to. She is a scrapper. She goes at you hammer and tongs—pretending to quarrel as a means of entertaining you . . ."
Medora Phillips removed her elbow from the back of the sofa, and began to prod up her cushions. "How about your work?" she asked. "What are you doing?"
