Suddenly Paul ceased humming. He leaned toward her and took her hand. She pretended not to notice, but she was happy. Her fingers in his grew cold and covered with sweat. "I think you're unkind to them, Paul." Her voice shook. There was a waiting feeling in her when he touched her.
She made him sick of himself. Silly little thing! He dropped her hand as if he had forgotten it. He was hunched forward now with his knees crossed. He watched the floor where, in the bright afternoon light, dark patches were moving. There was a curious evil expression in his furtive eyes. His hair was rumpled in a colorless thatch across his head. His mouth was babyish. "That reminds me of a story—" Paul began. He paused a moment with a flickering sneer on his lips. Aunt Julia, damn her! All of him was against May. In spite of his ugly look, his rumpled hair and childish mouth were disarming.
May was uncomfortable. She did not understand why he hesitated. "Go on."
He glanced at her and was irritated by the air of uneasiness which came to her whenever she was uncertain. Why couldn't she laugh! Aunt Julia's brat! He wanted to punish her. She saw his uneven blush of defiance.
He began to speak quickly. "Oh, a story—about a woman and a monkey." He went on. His eyes were wicked and amused. When he had finished he whistled and gazed at the ceiling again.
May did not understand the story, but she felt that he told it to embarrass her and make her sad.
There was silence when he had done, until, with white face and strained lips, he resumed his whistling. In his irritation with her he wanted to cry. "Why don't you laugh?" he asked finally.
May blushed. Her lashes were still wet, her lips tremulous. She stuttered, "I—I can't."
He jumped to his feet and jerked up the cap he had thrown aside. "Good-by."
"Why, Paul, what's the matter? You're not going? What for?" He was halfway to the door before May recovered herself and stood up.