"No, let us sit," he said, and they went to a bench near the arch. It was
twilight. The children were still romping and shouting. Many fat elderly
women--mothers and grandmothers--were solemnly marching about, talking in
fat, elderly voices.
"You have the blues?" asked Howard, thinking it might make her feel better
to talk of her troubles. "If I were your doctor, I should prescribe a
series of good cries."
"I don't cry," said the girl. "Sometimes I wish I could. Nellie cries and
gets over things. I feel awful inside and sick and my eyes burn. But I
can't cry."
"You're too young for that."
"Oh, in some ways I'm young; again, I'm not. I hate everybody this
evening."
"What's the matter? Has Nellie deserted you?"
"She? Not much. I had to tell her to go"--this with a joyless little
laugh--"she quit work and wouldn't behave herself. So now I'm going on
alone." "And you won't go home?"
"Never in the world," she said with almost fierce energy; then some thought
made her laugh in the same way as before. Howard decided that she had not
told him everything about her home life, even though she had rattled on as
if there were nothing to conceal. He sat watching her, she looking straight
before her, her small bare hands clasped in her lap.
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