“A kind of Messiah. They come to make silly people unhappy, don’t they?” He looked at her in cold amazement and disgust. Only a few moments ago he had been afraid of her; but now, by showing her poor thoughts, she had put herself at his mercy. “You go to bed,” he said. “I’m sick of this nonsense.” He gripped her shoulders roughly and pushed her toward the door. “Please, just let me put away the sandwiches. I want to wrap them in wet napkins so they’ll keep fresh.” “Forget the damn sandwiches.” “Not damn, _ham_ sandwiches.” She couldn’t help laughing. It was so paltry to have him propelling her like a punishable child. “Ham, jam, or damn, forget them!” he cried, raging. “You and your Messiah have ruined this Picnic anyhow. You spoiled it because you knew I looked forward to it. You’ve plotted against it, sneered at me and at Joyce because you knew I admired her.” “Admired her! Oh, is that the word?” The little sarcasm hummed like a tuning fork in some silent chamber of his mind. “You fool,” he said. “Are you trying to push her into my arms?” “I guess she can find the way without pushing.” “Well, you _are_ a fool,” he said slowly, in a dull voice that struck her deeper than any temper could have done. “You throw away love as if it was breadcrusts.” With a furious sweep he was about to hurl the neat piles of her handiwork on the floor. In one last salvage of decency he altered the course of his hand. He seized a fistful of the little brown strips of crust and flung them wildly across the room. The carving knife clattered off the table. “You’re frightening Virginia,” was all she said. Anger, the red and yellow clown, burst through the tight paper hoop of his mind and played grotesque unlaughable capers. Bewildered by his own ferocity he strode to the corner, swung open the door of the back stairs, and pointed savagely upward. She went without another word. Her blue eyes were very large and dark, they faced him with the unwavering defiance he detested and admired. Good old Phyl, he couldn’t help thinking. She’s unbeatable. Now, as usual, he had put himself in the wrong. He crashed the door behind her, and stood listening to her slow steps. He soothed the cat with some sardine-tails, finished making the chicken sandwiches, wrapped them carefully as Phyllis had suggested. I wonder what we’ll be thinking when we eat them? As he put them away in the ice box he noticed the cocoanut cake on a shelf. With a sense of retaliation he cut himself a thick slice. He became aware of the scrambling tick of the alarm clock on the dresser. A quarter past eleven. The house was thrillingly still. The serenely dormant kitchen slowly sobered the buffoon dancing in his brain.