Swing (Feb-Dec 1951)

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4 short story. by CLARA LEDERER 'T WAS two o'clock when George . came in. He was in a bad humor ecause the banquet, with its thirdate hquor, had been a bore, and beause he had forced himself to stay kte only in the hope of getting a rise ut of Margarita. But all the while, e knew better. "Rita!" he yelled, tossing his hat iid coat on to the yellow velvet cheserfield in a spasm of revolt. But sure enough — "Right with you, darling!" her lappy voice sang back. He wanted to knock the slim, satiny 'olumes of poetry from their shelves, ie wanted to tear the silver-gilt lock ;rom the little desk, and smash in its tencilled medallions with his fist. He elt like grabbing the camellias afloat n their Lalique chalice, and hurHng :hem against the limited-edition wallpaper. The next moment Margarita had 'r'loated down the stairs and into his inns. Her eyes danced with laughter, ler face was radiant as a fresh flower. She didn't mind about his overcoat being on the chesterfield. She just pushed him into a chair with a merry exaggeration of strength, and sank contentedly against him. At whatever ungodly hour he got home, Margarita seemed forever to be just emerging from a bath. Her curls were moist, her body warm through layers of fragrant chiffon. "Did you have fun? Was it a nice party?" she wanted to know. He felt a slow fury rise in him, because she had not noticed that he was in a bad humor. "It was a lousy party. I had a rotten time." She tried to console him. "Can I get you a sandwich and a glass of milk?" "No." "Cold beer? Or sherry and cake?" "Hell, no!" He pushed her away to get at his cigarettes. She helped him find them in his pocket, and held the lighter for