Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/787

Rh She starts again at the wine-glasses, which Lena has left undisturbed at one end of the table: "And it was just ten minutes to twelve when he came!"

''From this point on, having absent-mindedly rewrapped the glass in her hand after dusting it, she begins to put the others back into the bag, under the impression that she is cleaning and packing them preparatory to their removal. She does this three or four times before the lessening array on the table draws Mr. Tarrant's attention to her actions. He stares at her curiously, opens his mouth as if to speak once or twice, then shakes his head vaguely and holds his peace.''

Mrs. Tarrant, fitting in the glasses with much precision, and occasionally gesturing emphatically with one to point her story: "So I just walked out and left him, cigar and all. And that's why I think—" She pauses abruptly and looks severely at the few remaining glasses on the table, then at the one in her hand, then at the bag. "That's why I— Why, Dick Tarrant, what am I doing?"

Mr. Tarrant, simply: "I don't know."

Mrs. Tarrant, confusedly: "Well, but—but I thought I was unpacking these glasses?"

Mr. Tarrant, deprecatingly: "It had that look at first."

Mrs. Tarrant, accusingly: "But now I'm packing them!"

Mr. Tarrant, intelligently: "Exactly."

Mrs. Tarrant, pathetically: "But, Dick, what am I doing that for?"

Mr. Tarrant, gaining time: "Well, of course I couldn't tell all in a minute, you know—the first shot out of the box—but perhaps you—er—perhaps—"

Mrs. Tarrant, with compressed lips: "It's because I was talking so. It's too idiotic. Will you tell me what we have accomplished to-day?"

Mr. Tarrant, brightly: "Why, we've moved those three—er—objects at least eight times, and we've—"

Mrs. Tarrant, uncertainly: "Oh, don't, Dick! If I wasn't so angry I should cry. But—but I don't see what good that would do, do you?"

Mr. Tarrant, decidedly: "Not a bit—do you know it's dark? Too dark to work, by George!" It has suddenly begun to darken, with the quick darkness that precedes a shower.

Mrs. Tarrant, expressively: "Work!"

Mr. Tarrant, pressing a button in the wall, whereat the ghostly clanging of a bell in the distance causes them to jump nervously: "Yes, madam, work—or perhaps you regard this as amusement?" He presses another button, and a glare of white light floods the room. "If you think that lugging a cross-looking gentleman in a marble tam-o'-shanter and a lady without any head, that rubs off on your coat, all around a room twenty times a day, is my idea of sport, you have