She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. I have been thinking—I will go to my wife again. The room in which this interview took place had a sordid and miserable look. She contrived to break down the barriers of shyness at last in one direction, and talked one night of love and the facts of love with Miss Miniver. She did not twitch. “Oh my God, what if she’s dead?” More giggling.
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