"Why, hon," Lafe was pleading, "I've got my work to do. You know I stay home every minute I can. Ol' Horne says I'm tied to your apron strings. What's got into you, Hetty?"
"Nothing's the matter with me. For heaven's sake, shut up and let me have a little peace. I say you don't care what becomes of me. No, you don't. Here, I've had a splitting headache and when I tell you about it, all you do is grin. Now, don't go and try to tell me you feel for me."
"What do you want me to do? Cry on your shoulder? A man can't make a fuss over them things, Hetty."
"There you go again—making fun of me. If I was to die to-night, nobody'd care—not even Bob. I wish I could die. You could go back to Paula then."
"Hon," said Lafe, in a choked voice.
Bob wiped his feet noisily on the steps and I coughed. When we entered, there was no trace of a dispute or of anger on Hetty's countenance. Supper was ready and we sat down to it with grand appetites.
In the morning the repair of a windmill at a water tank compelled our setting out to Badger to purchase pipe and joints. Lafe explained the purpose of the trip at unusual length to his wife. She listened stonily and told him to go by all means—told him with that high air of resignation we put on when we acquiesce in anything we are powerless to prevent. Just as we started, Johnson tried to put his arm about her. On being repulsed, he slowly mounted his horse.