He wanted a formula, and could find none. He lit a cigarette, and leaned back against the lamp-post, meditating. Marian saw this from the window. She saw her brother-in-law standing on the street corner, smoking a cigarette and staring at the sky, when he knew very well that dinner was ready. Let him! She made up her mind that she would not say one word. She put everything into the oven to keep hot, went out on the veranda, and sat down there.
When, at last, Wilder came down the street, and saw her, he knew by her face that she was not saying a word. Instead of admiring this forbearance, a fierce exasperation rose in him. He wanted her to say a word, so that he could reply in other words. He desired a barrage of peppery words. He had stopped, just to look at the sky—and she begrudged him that!
“Good evening, Leonard,” she said, quite politely.
“Oh! Good evening!” said he, as if surprised. “You here?”
Then he sat down on the top step and lit another cigarette.
“And here I sit until you do say something!” he thought.
“I will not be drawn into a dispute with Leonard,” thought Marian. “He’s simply looking for a chance to be nasty; but I shan’t say a word.”
From inside the house came a sound of hammering. It was Evan Wilder, doing some little carpentering job; and this—this creditable and helpful thing—filled Leonard with still greater exasperation.
He was weary and hot. He wanted peace. He wanted a dim and lofty dining room, a silent and highly competent manservant, and a rare sort of dinner; and when he thought of what he was actually going to get—
He had meant not to speak, but that hammering was too much.