"It seemed to me that after--my little mother,
there couldn't ever be another--and now you! You!"
At the business of sewing some beads on a lamp-shade, Carrie looked up,
her eyes dewy.
"And I felt that way about one good husband," she said, "and now I see
there could be two."
Alma tiptoed out.
The third month of this, she was allowing Leo Friedlander his two
evenings a week. Once to the theater in a modish little sedan car which
Leo drove himself. One evening at home in the rose and mauve
drawing-room. It delighted Louis and Carrie slyly to have in their
friends for poker over the dining-room table these evenings, leaving the
young people somewhat indirectly chaperoned until as late as midnight.
Louis' attitude with Leo was one of winks, quirks, slaps on the back and
the curving voice of innuendo.
"Come on in, Leo, the water's fine!"
"Louis!" This from Alma stung to crimson and not arch enough to feign
that she did not understand.
"Loo, don't tease," said Carrie, smiling, but then closing her eyes as
if to invoke help to want this thing to come to pass.
But Leo was frankly the lover, kept not without difficulty on the edge
of his ardor. A city youth with gymnasium bred shoulders, fine, pole
vaulter's length of limb and a clean tan skin that bespoke cold
drubbings with Turkish towels.
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