CHAPTER XXXIV—ONE DOES FORGET ABOUT HAPPINESS
SUE felt that the woman was about to speak, and suddenly she knew that she could not listen. Fighting down the rather terrifying force of her emotions, fighting tears even, she rushed to the door, mutely brushed Mrs. Wilde aside and ran down the stairs. Sue let herself out on the front porch, closed the screen door and leaned hack against it, clinging to the knob, breathless, unstrung. The eyes of the Street would be on her, of course. She thought of this and dropped into one of the porch chairs.
A man turned the corner—a tall, rather young man who wore a shapeless suit of gray, a limp collar, a flowing bow tie, a soft hat; and who had a trick of throwing his leg out and around as he walked and toeing in with the right font.
He turned in, grinning cheerfully and waving a lean hand. He mounted the steps. Sue sat erect, gripping the arms of her chair, eyes bright, and laughed nervously.
“Henry,” she cred, “you're hopeless! Where's the new suit? You're not a bit respectable.”
He seated himself on the porch railing and gazed ruefully downward.
“Sue, I'm sorry. Plum forgot. And I swore I'd never disgrace you again. I am hopeless. You're right.” Then he laughed—irresponsibly, happily, like a boy.
She stared at him. “What is it, Henry?”