A doll on a small table began to buzz mysteriously in its internals. The man released the woman's hand--both looking deeply annoyed. “I thought we had a private number here,” said the man, the tiredness coming back into his face like scribbles on parchment. She crossed to the telephone with a charming furtiveness--you could see she was playing they had just been found behind the piano together in a game of hide-and-seek. The doll was disembowelled of its telephone. “No--No--Oh very well--” “What was it?” She smiled. “Is this the Eclair Picture Palace?” she mimicked. [Illustration: THE TIREDNESS THAT HAD BEEN IN THE MAN'S FACE BEGAN TO LEAVE IT] Both seemed almost childishly relieved. So in spite of his successful-business-man mouth, he wasn't the kind that is less a husband than a telephone-receiver, especially at home. Still, she would have made a difference even to telephone-receivers, that could be felt even without the usual complement of senses. “That was--bothersome for a minute.” His tone lent the words a quaint accent of scare. “Oh, well--if you have one at all--the way the service is now--” “There won't be any telephone when we take our vacation together, that's _settled_.” She had been kneeling, examining a bookcase for books. Now she turned with one in her hand, her hair ruddy and smooth as ruddy amber in the reflected light. “No, but _telegrams_. And wireless,” she whispered mockingly, the more mockingly because it so obviously made him worried as a worried boy. She came over and stood smoothing his ear a moment, a half-unconscious customary gesture, no doubt, for he relaxed under it and the look of rest came back. Then she went to her chair, sat down and opened the book. “No use borrowing trouble now, dear. Now listen. Cigar?” “Going.” “Ashtray?” “Yes.” “And remember not to knock it over when you get excited. Promise?” “Um.” “Very well.” Mrs. Severance's even voice began to flow into the stillness. “As I was getting too big for Mr. Wopsle's great-aunt--” XXI “And that's the end of the chapter.” Mrs. Severance's voice trailed off into silence. She closed the book with a soft sound. The man whom it might be rather more convenient than otherwise to call Mr. Severance opened his eyes. He had not been asleep, but he had found by a good deal of experience that he paid more attention to Dickens if he closed his eyes while she read. “Thank you dear.” “Thank you. You know I love it. Especially Pip.” He considered. “There was a word one of my young men used the other day about Dickens. Gusto, I think--yes, that was it. Well, I find that, as I grow older, that seems to be the thing I value rather more than most men of my age. Gusto.” He smiled “Though I take it more quietly, perhaps,--than I did when I was young,” he added. “You _are_ young” said Mrs. Severance carefully.