As he spoke he remembered how often of late he had given the same reason for his unpunctuality, and how slight a spark of interest it roused in her. Did she believe him, even? Very likely not. She was becoming more and more resentful of the hours he devoted to Rebecca Stram; unless, indeed, she suspected him of using the sculptress as a screen, and secretly giving his time to "that woman"—who to her was still, and perhaps always would be, Halo Tarrant. For whatever cause, he saw at a glance that she nursed a grievance, a fact confirmed by her not replying to his remark. It was always a proof of resentment in Laura Lou to ignore what he said, and meet each of his conversational attempts by a totally irrelevant reply.

"The dinner bell rang ever so long ago," she said, rising listlessly from her rocking chair.

"I could smell that fact as soon as I opened the front door," he returned, his eagerness driven back on itself by her indifference. "Just let me wash my hands—" and he began to throw down on the floor a pile of linen stacked in the washbasin.

"Oh don't, Vance—it's the laundry, just come home," she exclaimed, stooping to pick up the scattered garments. "And this floor's so dirty—"

"Well, you've got a closet to keep things in," he retorted, exasperated, as he always was, by her growing inertia, her way of letting their clothes lie about and accumulate in the cramped untidy room, rather than take the trouble of putting them where they belonged. But he was always ashamed of himself when he spoke to her impatiently, and to efface his retort he added, while he dried his hands: "Been out any this afternoon, old lady?"

"No."

"Why not? A little walk would have done you good."

"I didn't feel like walking."

It was their eternal daily dialogue. Why didn't she ever feel like walking? In the early days she used to spring up the hillsides with him like a young deer—but now, day after day, she just sat in her chair, and rocked and brooded. He suspected her of thinking—not unnaturally—that in a city there was no object in going out unless you had money for shopping or the movies. She had never said so—she never complained of their lack of money; but she could not understand what else there was to do in a place like New York.

"Then you've stuck indoors again all day and not spoken to a human being? I hate your being always alone like that," he said, dashing the brush irritably through his hair.

"I wasn't alone." She paused, and then brought out: "Not this afternoon, at least. I had a visitor."