She goes at you hammer and tongs--pretending
to quarrel as a means of entertaining you..."
Medora Phillips removed her elbow from the back of the sofa, and began to
prod up her cushions. "How about your work?" she asked. "What are you
doing?"
He came back. "Oh, I'm boning. Some things still to make up. I'm digging in
the poetry of Gower--the 'moral Gower'."
"Well, I see no reason why poetry shouldn't be moral. Has he been
publishing anything lately that I ought to see?"
"Not--lately."
"I presume I can look into some of his older things."
"They are all old--five hundred years and more. He was a pal of Chaucer's."
She gave him an indignant glance. "So that's it? You're laying traps for
me? You don't like me! You don't respect me!"
One of the recalcitrant cushions fell to the floor. They bumped heads in
trying to pick it up.
"Traps!" he said. "Never in the world! Don't think it! Why, Gower is just a
necessary old bore. Nobody's supposed to know much about him--except
instructors and their hapless students."
He added one more sentence to his letter to "Arthur": "She pushes you
pretty hard.
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