“I won't.”
“And you will be thinking about—”
“Yes. We 'll talk it over next time. Good night.”
“Good night,” she replied. And when he had walked a little way, he heard her humming a tune to herself in the doorway.
Wilson was sitting in the shadow on the steps of the lumber office. He rose and came forward.
“Hello, Bill!”
“That you, Bert?”
“What's left of me. If I'd known you were going to be gone half the night, I'd have brought a blanket.”
“Couldn't help it.”
“I suppose not. Not even if she'd been fifty-five, with red hair and a squint, eh?” Beveridge, instead of laughing, made an impatient gesture. “Come out here in the light, Bert. Nobody around, is there?”