good friends. Do you think Theresa Moss or Anna or Mary Jackson would think enough of you to bring it up?"
"Huh," said Billy. "Now you're mentioning girls who know how to mind their own business."
Lillian got up from the table with a firm purposefulness. "How many numbers will you sing on your next program, Billy?" she asked.
"About five, I guess."
"Gee, that's a lot to get down pat." Lillian spoke absently as she wiped off the waffle iron. She was wondering what Hubert was doing. He had left the kitchen. Had he gone to bed? Or was he just sitting sulkily in the living-room? She hoped he had not gone to bed. She wanted to speak to him. Oh, how she wanted to speak to him.
"I'll help you with the dishes, Lillian," Louise said. "I hope you're not sore at me."
"No, don't be silly. I don't get sore. Put that maple syrup business in the ice-box, will you? Watch out! Oh, that's all right. I'm always spilling something myself. I'll wipe it up. It's sticky, that syrup. It should have really stuck to your hand."
She kept talking as she washed the dishes. Never once did she permit a silence to fall. Billy had not left the kitchen but sat listening to Lillian and casting angry glances at his wife. He said nothing till the last dish was back in the closet and the last spoon returned to the drawer.
"Come on, Louise. Time to go home," he said then.
