In the lingo of Louis Latz, he was “a rattling good business man, too.”  He shared with his father partnership in a manufacturing business—­“Friedlander Clinical Supply Company”—­which, since his advent from high school into the already enormously rich firm, had almost doubled its volume of business.

The kind of sweetness he found in Alma he could never articulate even to himself.  In some ways she seemed hardly to have the pressure of vitality to match his, but, on the other hand, just that slower beat to her may have heightened his sense of prowess.

His greatest delight seemed to lie in her pallid loveliness.  “White honeysuckle,” he called her, and the names of all the beautiful white flowers he knew.  And then one night, to the rattle of poker chips from the remote dining room, he jerked her to him without preamble, kissing her mouth down tightly against her teeth.

“My sweetheart!  My little white carnation sweetheart!  I won’t be held off any longer.  I’m going to carry you away for my little moonflower wife.”

She sprang back prettier than he had ever seen her in the dishevelment from where his embrace had dragged at her hair.

“You mustn’t,” she cried, but there was enough of the conquering male in him to read easily into this a mere plating over her desire.

“You can’t hold me at arm’s length any longer.  You’ve maddened me for months.  I love you.  You love me.  You do.  You do,” and crushed her to him, but this time his pain and his surprise genuine as she sprang back, quivering.

“No, I tell you.  No!  No!  No!” and sat down trembling.

“Why, Alma!” And he sat down, too, rather palely, at the remote end of the divan.

“You—­I—­mustn’t!” she said, frantic to keep her lips from twisting, her little lacy fribble of a handkerchief a mere string from winding.

“Mustn’t what?”

“Mustn’t,” was all she could repeat and not weep her words.

“Won’t—­I—­do?”

“It’s—­mamma.”

“What?”

“Her.”

“Her what, my little white buttonhole carnation?”

“You see—­I—­She’s all alone.”

“You adorable, she’s got a brand-new husky husband.”

“No—­you don’t—­understand.”

Then, on a thunderclap of inspiration, hitting his knee: 

“I have it.  Mamma-baby!  That’s it.  My girlie is a cry-baby, mamma-baby!” And made to slide along the divan toward her, but up flew her two small hands, like fans.

“No,” she said, with the little bang back in her voice which steadied him again.  “I mustn’t!  You see, we’re so close.  Sometimes it’s more as if I were the mother and she my little girl.”

“Alma, that’s beautiful, but it’s silly, too.  But tell me first of all, mamma-baby, that you do care.  Tell me that first, dearest, and then we can talk.”

The kerchief was all screwed up now, so tightly that it could stiffly unwind of itself.