“It's awful set, I think,” said Sylvia. “I'd rather have flowers growing where they want to instead of where they have to. And I never did like box. Folks say it's unhealthy, too.”
“It's been here for years, and the people who belonged here have never been short-lived,” said Henry. “I like it.”
“I don't,” said Sylvia. She looked at the road. “I don't see where they can be.”
“Oh, they'll be along soon. Don't worry, Sylvia.”
“Well,” said Sylvia, in a strident voice, “I'm going in and get supper, and when it's ready we'll set down and eat it. I ain't going to wait one minute. I'm just sick of this kind of work.”
Sylvia got up, and her scissors dropped again onto the step. Henry picked them up. “Here are your scissors,” said he.
Sylvia took them and went into the house with a flounce. Henry heard a door slam and dishes rattle. “She's all wrought up again,” he thought. He felt very tall as he pitied Sylvia. He was sorry for her, but her distress over such a matter as the young folks' being late seemed to him about as much to be taken seriously as the buzzing of a bumblebee over a clump of lilies in the yard.
He was watching the bumblebee when he heard the front gate click, and thought with relief that the wanderers had returned, then Sidney Meeks came into view from between the rows of box. Sidney came up the walk, wiping his forehead with a large red handkerchief, and fanning himself with an obsolete straw hat.
“Hullo,” said Henry.
“How are you?” said Meeks. “It's a corking hot day.”