And then suddenly Thyrsis heard a voice cry out in anguish, “Oh, oh! stop!” He heard his wife spring up from her chair.
“What’s the matter?” asked Mrs. Channing.
“I can’t listen to you any more!” cried Corydon. “You don’t know what you’re saying!—You don’t understand me at all!”
There was a pause. “I’m sorry you feel that,” said Mrs. Channing.
“I had no right to talk to you!” exclaimed the other. “There’s no one can understand! I have to fight alone!”
At this point Thyrsis went into the kitchen, and made some noise that they would hear. Then he called, “Are you there, dearest?”
“Yes,” said Corydon; and he went out upon the piazza. He saw her standing, white and tense.
“Are you still talking?” he said, with forced carelessness.
And as Mrs. Channing answered “Yes,” Corydon said, quickly, “Excuse me a moment,” and went into the house.
So the poet sat and talked with his guest about the state of the weather and the condition of the roads; until at last her husband arrived, saying that it was time they were starting. Corydon did not appear again, and so finally Thyrsis accompanied them out to their car, and saw them start off. They promised to come again, but he knew they would not keep that promise.