“You,” she said, “can still say pretty things, can’t you?”
“To you, Sheila,” he answered, and then I thought that Sam and I ought to move on. I said so in an aside to Sam, who was acting as if he were sitting in an aisle seat and twisting his program into funny shapes while he waited—in great suspense—for the hero to get the girl just before the drop of the last curtain. I think men are much too natural at times, and that was one of them.
After I had touched Sam’s arm, and frowned at him, and said, “Come on,” in a sibilant whisper, we went up to the house, and into the big, living hall and stood there to drain.
“Gosh,” said Sam, after I had taken off my hat and was wiping poppy stains from my face—my hat was ruined; the colors of my cheap flowers had run from the rain. . . . “Gosh, wasn’t that simply great! My gosh, did you see his face?”
“Naturally,” I said, because I was so worked up and excited that it made me feel snappish.
“Well, you needn’t be cutting,” said Sam as he tiptoed over to a window from which he could see Miss Sheila and Mr. Wake, who were about a block away down by the garden gate. “My soul,” he commented, after he had looked out, “I’ll say that’s quick work! Didn’t know he had it in him—great hat!”
“You shouldn’t spy on them, it isn’t fair,” I stated as I joined him. But we did look for a moment more, at those two people who stood outdoors, under the savage assaults of that raging storm, but who felt—I’m certain—as if they were favored by the happiest skies of a clear June day.
“Come on, Sam,” I ordered and turned.
“Gosh ding it,” he asked as he followed me (“Gosh ding it” is his most intense expression), “wasn’t it wonderful?”
“Um hum—” I murmured.