"I can't stand it, Harry. I'm going crazy. I got to get relief. It's
killing me--the lonesomeness--the waiting. I can't stand no more."
He sat looking at a wreath of roses in the light carpet, lips compressed,
beating with fist into palm.
"Gad! I dunno! I give up. You're too much for me, woman."
"I can't go on this way--the suspense--can't--can't."
"I don't know what you want. God knows I give up!
Thirty-eight-hundred-dollar-a-year apartment--more spending-money in a
week than you can spend in a month. Clothes. Jewelry. Your son one of the
high-fliers at college--his automobile--your automobile. Passes to every
show in town. Gad! I can't help it if you turn it all down and sit up here
moping and making it hot for me every time I put my foot in the place. I
don't know what you want; you're one too many for me."
"I can't stand--"
"All of a sudden, out of a clear sky, she sends for me to come home. Second
time in two weeks. No wonder, with your long face, your son lives mostly
up at the college. I 'ain't got enough on my mind yet with the 'Manhattan
Revue' opening to-morrow night. You got it too good, if you want to know
it.
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