He gathered her in his arms, pushed back her head, and looked into her reluctant eyes.
"What's the matter, hon? You ain't sick, are you?"
She wriggled herself free of his arms and turned to the stove.
"No," she said, in a monotone, "I ain't sick."
He regarded her with a worried pucker between his eyes.
"Aw, come on, Lil—tell a fellow what's the matter, can't you? It ain't like you to be like this."
"Nothin'!" she insisted.
"You gimme a swell turn there fer a minute. They're droppin' like flies to-day—hottest day in five summers."
Silence.
"Whew!" He peeled off his coat and hung it, with his imitation Panama hat, behind the door; his pink shirt showed dark streaks of perspiration; and he tugged at the rear button of his limp collar.