Late one February afternoon Anthony came into the apartment and groping through the little hall, pitch-dark in the winter dusk, found Gloria sitting by the window. She turned as he came in.
“What did Mr. Haight have to say?” she asked listlessly.
“Nothing,” he answered, “usual thing. Next month, perhaps.”
She looked at him closely; her ear attuned to his voice caught the slightest thickness in the dissyllable.
“You’ve been drinking,” she remarked dispassionately.
He yawned in the armchair and there was a moment’s silence between them. Then she demanded suddenly:
“Did you go to Mr. Haight? Tell me the truth.”
“No.” He smiled weakly. “As a matter of fact I didn’t have time.”
“I thought you didn’t go…. He sent for you.”
“I don’t give a damn.