She rose. So did he.
'I can't and I won't talk about a thing like that,' she said quickly, unevenly.
'Then I suppose I'd better go,' said he, standing motionless.
She made no reply.
They stood and stood there. Across the street, at B. F. Jones's, a porch full of young people were singing Louisiana Lou. Henry, out of sheer nervousness, hummed it with them; then caught himself and turned to the steps.
'Well,' he remarked listlessly, 'I'll say good-night, then.'
Still she was silent. He lingered, but she gave him no help. He hadn't believed that she could be as angry as this. He waited and waited. He even felt and weighed the impulses to go right to her and make her sit in the hammock with him and bring back something of the old time feeling.
But he found himself moving off down the steps and heading for the yellow cloud at the corner.
He hated the sand-flies. Their dead bodies formed a soft crunchy carpet on pavement and sidewalk. You couldn't escape them. They came for a week or two in June. They were less than an inch long, pale yellow with gauzy wings. They had neither sting nor pincers. They overwhelmed these lake towns by their mere numbers. Down by the bright lights on Simpson Street they literally covered everything. You couldn't see through a square inch of Donovan's wide plateglass front. Mornings it was sometimes necessary to clear the sidewalks with shovels.
It was two or three hours later when Henry crept cautiously into Humphrey's shop and ascended the stairs.