Lucy looked at the stains on the threadbare carpeting to distract herself, embarrassed to her core. Old saltwater was right. "I've got to see him; but I'll be reasonable. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. It was an overcast day, albeit not foggy, and the electric light shades glowed warmly, and an Italian waiter with insufficient English took Ramage’s orders, and waited with an appearance of affection. In the first place there were not so many suitable advertisements as she had expected. “Dear husband,” she murmured. For all the enervating heat, he applied himself vigorously to his tasks. Maybe later. Through all he said ran one quality that pleased her—the quality of a man who feels that things can be done, that one need not wait for the world to push one before one moved.
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