Motionless she stood there, bare-necked and bare-armed, against the cold window-pane, inclosed from behind with lace curtains and watching with large-pupiled eyes the steamer slip along into the night; the black-topped trees swaying in the ledge of park which slanted to the water’s edge; the well-oiled driveway and its darting traffic of two low-sliding lines of motor-cars with acetylene eyes.

At five minutes past eight Max Zincas fitted his key into the door and entered immediately into the front room.  On that first click of the lock Mae Munroe stepped out from between the lace curtains, her face carefully powdered and bleached of all its morning inaccuracies, her lips thrust upward and forward.

“Max!”

“Whew!”

He tossed his black derby hat to the red velvet couch and dropped down beside it, his knees far apart and straining his well-pressed trousers to capacity; placed a hand on each well-spread knee, then ran five fingers through his thinning hair; thrust his head well forward, foreshortening his face, and regarded her.

“Well, girl,” he said, “here I am.”

“I—­I—­”

“Lied to me, eh?  Pretty spry for a sick one, eh?  Pretty slick!  I knew you was lying, girl.”

“I been sick as a dog, Max.  Loo can tell you.”

“What’s got you?  Thigh?”

“God!  I dun’no’!  I dun’no’!”

She paused in the center of the room, her lips trembling and the light from the chandelier raining full upon her.  High-hipped and full-busted as Titian loved to paint them, she stood there in a black lace gown draped loosely over a tight foundation of white silk, and trying to compose her lips and her throat, which arched and flexed, revealing the heart-beats of her and the shortness of her breath.

“Is this the way to say hello to—­to your Maizie, Max?  Is—­is this the way?” Then she crossed and leaned to him, printing a kiss on his brow between the eyes.  “I been sick as a dog, Max.  Ain’t you going to—­to kiss me?”

“Come, come, now, just cut that, Mae.  Let’s have supper and get down to brass tacks.  What’s eating you?”

“Max!”

“Come, come, now, I’m tired, girl, and got to stop off at Lenox Avenue to-night after I leave here.  Where’s your clock around here, anyways, so a fellow knows where he’s at?”

“There it is under the pillow next to you, Max.  I smothered it because it gets on my nerves all day.  Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, right into my head like it was saying all the time:  ‘Oh-Mae!  Oh-Mae!  Oh-Mae!’ till I nearly go crazy, Max.  Tick-tock—­God! it—­it just gets me!”

He reached for the small onyx clock, placing it upright on the mantel, and shrugged his shoulders loosely.

“Gad!” he said, “you wimmin!  Crazy as loons, all of you and your kind.  Come, come, get down to brass tacks, girl.  I’m tired and gotta get home.”

“Home, Max?”

“Yes, home!”