— XXVII —NETTA CRIES
She was ready for their shopping expedition, looking charming in her long fur coat and small hat, which was perched, coquettishly, a little on one side of her dainty head. She regarded her husband with a smile; which he returned – he was just moving away from the couch on which was the bearskin rug.
“What was that noise?”
“Noise? Like a pistol shot? Wasn’t that overhead?”
“It sounded” – she glanced about her – “it sounded as if it were in here. I wondered if that agreeable visitor and you were beginning to shoot each other.” She sniffed. “And what’s the smell? It smells” – another sniff – “like fireworks.”
“You’ve the great gift of imagination, which extends even to your nose.”
“There is a smell” – sniff – “of something unusual. You’re not to laugh at me. I’m sur
