“Then,” boldly, “come out and sit on the porch and get all nice and cool.”
“Well—”
In the tender darkness, with the clamor in the house behind them, he resolutely took her hand. She squeezed his once, then relaxed.
“Louetta! I think you’re the nicest thing I know!”
“Well, I think you’re very nice.”
“Do you? You got to like me! I’m so lonely!”
“Oh, you’ll be all right when your wife comes home.”
“No, I’m always lonely.”
She clasped her hands under her chin, so that he dared not touch her. He sighed:
“When I feel punk and—” He was about to bring in the tragedy of Paul, but that was too sacred even for the diplomacy of love. “—when I get tired out at the office and everything, I like to look across the street and think of you. Do you know I dreamed of you, one time!”