He was embarrassed by her bedroom:  the broad couch with a cover of violet silk, mauve curtains striped with gold.  Chinese Chippendale bureau, and an amazing row of slippers, with ribbon-wound shoe-trees, and primrose stockings lying across them.  His manner of bringing the ash-tray had just the right note of easy friendliness, he felt.  “A boob like Verg Gunch would try to get funny about seeing her bedroom, but I take it casually.”  He was not casual afterward.  The contentment of companionship was gone, and he was restless with desire to touch her hand.  But whenever he turned toward her, the cigarette was in his way.  It was a shield between them.  He waited till she should have finished, but as he rejoiced at her quick crushing of its light on the ashtray she said, “Don’t you want to give me another cigarette?” and hopelessly he saw the screen of pale smoke and her graceful tilted hand again between them.  He was not merely curious now to find out whether she would let him hold her hand (all in the purest friendship, naturally), but agonized with need of it.

On the surface appeared none of all this fretful drama.  They were talking cheerfully of motors, of trips to California, of Chum Frink.  Once he said delicately, “I do hate these guys—­I hate these people that invite themselves to meals, but I seem to have a feeling I’m going to have supper with the lovely Mrs. Tanis Judique to-night.  But I suppose you probably have seven dates already.”

“Well, I was thinking some of going to the movies.  Yes, I really think I ought to get out and get some fresh air.”

She did not encourage him to stay, but never did she discourage him.  He considered, “I better take a sneak!  She will let me stay—­there is something doing—­and I mustn’t get mixed up with—­I mustn’t—­I’ve got to beat it.”  Then, “No. it’s too late now.”

Suddenly, at seven, brushing her cigarette away, brusquely taking her hand: 

“Tanis!  Stop teasing me!  You know we—­Here we are, a couple of lonely birds, and we’re awful happy together.  Anyway I am!  Never been so happy!  Do let me stay!  Ill gallop down to the delicatessen and buy some stuff—­cold chicken maybe—­or cold turkey—­and we can have a nice little supper, and afterwards, if you want to chase me out, I’ll be good and go like a lamb.”

“Well—­yes—­it would be nice,” she said.

Nor did she withdraw her hand.  He squeezed it, trembling, and blundered toward his coat.  At the delicatessen he bought preposterous stores of food, chosen on the principle of expensiveness.  From the drug store across the street he telephoned to his wife, “Got to get a fellow to sign a lease before he leaves town on the midnight.  Won’t be home till late.  Don’t wait up for me.  Kiss Tinka good-night.”  He expectantly lumbered back to the flat.

“Oh, you bad thing, to buy so much food!” was her greeting, and her voice was gay, her smile acceptant.