"I—said—good-by."
"She should say good-by to me only if she wants to. Izzy, when you go out the gate drive back that rooster—I'll wring his little gallivantin' neck if he don't stop roosting in that bush!"
"Good night, children; take good care of the cars."
"Good night, mamma...papa."
The gate clicked shut, and the two figures moved into the mist of growing gloom; over their heads the trees met and formed across the brick sidewalk a roof as softly dark as the ceiling of a church. Birds chirped.
Mrs. Binswanger leaned her wide, uncorseted figure against a pillar and watched them until a curve in the avenue cut her view, then she dragged a low wicker rocker across the veranda.
"We can sit out on the porch a while yet, Julius. Not like midsummer it is for your rheumatism."
"Ya, ya. My slippers, Becky."
"Here."
"Ya, ya."