were home so there would be an excuse for postponing the scene. God, this would be terrible. The palms of his hands were wet and his mouth was dry. He wished she would come so he could plunge right in and get it over with. He would start by saying, "Look here, Helen, you and I are not really suited to each other." He would look at her then and if she was taking it well maybe he'd also say, "We never were."
And it wouldn't be no lie either. Cripes, what kind of a wife was she anyhow for a guy like him? No pep in her. If she ever laughed she'd crack her face wide open. Lillian was the girl for him all right, and he'd tell Helen that she was. Hell, why be afraid to tell her? She couldn't do anything about it. Come to think of it, he was glad his son wasn't there. Might as well get this thing over. It might prove a little unpleasant and that sort of thing was best attended to right away.
Helen came floating down the stairs. She wore a kind of pink kimono with a train to it and feathery, fluffy stuff all around the neck and sleeves of it. What did she think she was—a movie actress? It did look pretty, though, especially with the collar of the kimono standing up stiff behind her curly white hair.
"Good morning," she said in surprise.
Nellie hurried from the kitchen and handed the morning paper to her mistress. "Oatmeal, Mrs. Scott, or corn flakes?" she asked. "I got both."
"Corn flakes, please, Nellie."
Helen became instantly absorbed in the front-page news. Hubert's eyes were fixed disapprovingly on the doorway through which Nellie had disappeared. What
