She answered, from inside. He said: “Come here.” And she appeared in the doorway. He bade her come out and sit down. She chose the hammock, lay back indolently.
Amos filled his pipe with slow care and lighted it. His head was on one side, his eyes squinted thoughtfully. If there had been more light, Agnes could have seen that he was sorely troubled. But she could not see. So she thought him merely angry; and grew angry herself at the thought.
He asked at last: “You offered Wint booze?”
“Just some lemonade,” she said stiffly.
“Booze in it,” he reminded her. “Don’t you do that any more, Agnes.”
“I guess a little brandy won’t hurt Wint Chase,” she told him.
“Don’t you do it any more,” he repeated, finality in his tones. She said nothing; and after a little he asked, looking toward her wistfully in the shadows of the porch: “What did you do it for, Agnes? What did you do it for, anyway?”
She shrugged impatiently. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“What did you do it for?” he insisted. There was an implacable strength in Amos; she knew she could not escape answering. Nevertheless, she evaded again.
“Oh, no reason.”