He found himself touching the non-committal hand of James B. Merchant, Jr., who carried the talk along glibly, ignoring the gloomy youth with the glasses and the tiny moustache who sat in a shadow and sulked. Finally, after deliberately, boldly arranging a driving party of two for Monday evening, the cotillion leader left. Martha, when he had disappeared beyond the swirling, illuminated sand-flies at the corner, settled back in her chair and stared, silent, at the maples. Henry struggled for speech. 'Martha, look here,' came from him, in a tired voice, 'you've cut me dead. Twice. Now it seems to me----' 'I don't want to talk about that,' said Martha. 'But it isn't fair not to----' 'Please don't try to tell me that you weren't at Hoffmann's with that horrid girl.' 'I'm not trying to. But----' 'You took her there, didn't you?' 'Yes, but she----' 'She didn't make you. You knew her pretty well. While you were going with me, too.' 'Oh, well,' he muttered. Then, 'Thunder! If you're just determined not to be fair---- 'I won't let you say that to me.' The snap in her voice stung him. 'You're not fair! You won't even let me talk!' 'What earthly good is talk!' 'Oh, if you're going to take that attitude----' She rose. So did he. 'I can't and I won't talk about a thing like that,' she said quickly, unevenly. 'Then I suppose I'd better go,' said he, standing motionless. She made no reply. They stood and stood there. Across the street, at B. F. Jones's, a porch full of young people were singing _Louisiana Lou_. Henry, out of sheer nervousness, hummed it with them; then caught himself and turned to the steps. 'Well,' he remarked listlessly, 'I'll say good-night, then.' Still she was silent. He lingered, but she gave him no help. He hadn't believed that she could be as angry as this. He waited and waited. He even felt and weighed the impulses to go right to her and make her sit in the hammock with him and bring back something of the old time feeling. But he found himself moving off down the steps and heading for the yellow cloud at the corner. He hated the sand-flies. Their dead bodies formed a soft crunchy carpet on pavement and sidewalk. You couldn't escape them. They came for a week or two in June. They were less than an inch long, pale yellow with gauzy wings. They had neither sting nor pincers. They overwhelmed these lake towns by their mere numbers. Down by the bright lights on Simpson Street they literally covered everything. You couldn't see through a square inch of Donovan's wide plateglass front. Mornings it was sometimes necessary to clear the sidewalks with shovels. It was two or three hours later when Henry crept cautiously into Humphrey's shop and ascended the stairs. Humphrey had left lights for him. He was awake, too; there was a crack of light at the bottom of his bedroom door. But the door was shut tight. Henry put out all the lights and shut himself in his own disorderly room.