She looked at the sheet in the typewriter, on which was written wildly Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of this absurd family. But she did not comment on it, and George felt that this was one of her moments of genius. He wondered, in alarm, what she was going to do with him next. He felt helpless as only a husband can.
"Well, anyhow, they pack sardines in oil, not in vinegar," he said angrily. This sounded so silly it made him angrier still. He closed the door and cried in a fierce undertone, "What's the idea, this man Martin? Who is he? Is he staying for lunch?"
"He's an artist. I thought you liked artists."
"Yes, but we don't have to fill the house with 'em."
"I've put him in the spare room."
"In the spare room! What about Miss Clyde?"
"I haven't the faintest idea. He seemed to expect it, somehow. He's a very irresistible person."
"I guess I can resist him. If we've got to have him in the house we can put him in here, on the couch."
"It's too late. He's in the spare room now, washing his hands.—You needn't have been so rude when I brought him in."
