"They'll call us at eight," he said, "unless you'd like it to be later." Joan went to the door and opened it and held out her hand.

"Eight's good," she said.

"Good night, Marty." The boy looked at the little open hand with its long fingers, and at his wife, who seemed so cool and sweet and friendly.

What did she mean?
He asked her, with an odd catch in his voice.
And she gave him the smile of a tired child.

"Just that, old boy.