“If it was an advantage.”
“I assure you, it is. I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re like. And the more I see of you the murkier that idea gets.”
She smiled a little. “I’m just a woman—like all women-and I am in love with you.”
“But how in God’s name do you know?”
“I’m a woman. I don’t like to listen to the gnash and clank of your moral nature, Jimmie. You come some other time.” She gave him his hat. He found himself at the door.
He stammered when he said good night.
But she was calm. “Good night, Jimmie.”
His feet recited his departure; their sound moved slowly from the white clapboard house, gathered speed and assurance, covered a block, and slowed to a laggard rhythm. A toe dragged; the sound stopped altogether. It was replaced by the thresh and whisper of a hedge as Jimmie angrily yanked at a branch. Soon, his footsteps turned around, started uncertainly back, and presently slapped on the sidewalk in rapid succession: Jimmie was running.
He jumped the white gate in front of the house as cleanly as a deer. He landed in the grass, lightly. Then he stopped. The house was dark. Surprised, uncomprehending, he tiptoed up on its porch. The wisteria vine that had been silhouetted by lamplight was now moon-etched whitely against the blinds. He raised his hand to knock, and lowered it.
From the inside of the unlighted house came a sound—a vague ululation, which might have been weeping or a delicately ominous laughter.