“Not here—to the house, yes. She doesn't give a damn, so long as she doesn't have to see you.”
Murrell, somber-faced and thoughtful, examined a crack in the flooring.
“I'd like to know what happened back yonder in North Carolina to make her so blazing mad?” continued Ware.
“Well, if you want to know, I told her I loved her.”
“That's all right, that's the fool talk girls like to hear,” said Ware. He lighted a cigar with an air of wearied patience.
“Open the door, Tom,” commanded Murrell.
“It is close in here,” agreed the planter.
“It isn't that, but you smoke the meanest cigars I ever smelt, I always think your shoes are on fire. Tom, do you want to get rid of her? Did you mean that?”
“Oh, shut up,” said Tom, dropping his voice to a surly whisper.
There was a brief silence, during which Murrell studied his friend's face. When he spoke, it was to give the conversation a new direction.