“I thought, when I saw you—”
“I was afraid you'd think that.”
Neither spoke for a moment. Tillie's hands twisted nervously in her lap. Mr. Schwitter's eyes were fixed on the window, which looked back on the McKee yard.
“That spiraea back there's not looking very good. If you'll save the cigar butts around here and put them in water, and spray it, you'll kill the lice.”
Tillie found speech at last.
“I don't know why you come around bothering me,” she said dully. “I've been getting along all right; now you come and upset everything.”
Mr. Schwitter rose and took a step toward her.
“Well, I'll tell you why I came. Look at me. I ain't getting any younger, am I? Time's going on, and I'm wanting you all the time. And what am I getting? What've I got out of life, anyhow? I'm lonely, Tillie!”
“What's that got to do with me?”
“You're lonely, too, ain't you?”