“Now wait a minute,” he said.
“Didn’t you hear me?” she asked.
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either,” she said, sitting straight. Now the trembling stopped and the coldness was coming out her eyes.
“You’re crying,” he said.
“It’s so silly,” she said. “You think about me the same way she thinks about you.”
“Oh, no,” he protested.
“Oh, yes,” she said, not touching the tears with her hands.
“That can’t be,” he almost yelled.
“It is.”
“But I love her,” he said.
“But I love you,” she replied.
“Don’t you think there’s a little spark of love in her for me?” he wanted to know, reaching out in the air of the porch.
“Don’t you think you could have a little spark of love in yourself for me?” she said.
“There must be something I can do.”
“There’s nothing any of us can do. Everybody loves the wrong one, everybody hates the wrong one.” She began to laugh.
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing.” She threw her head back.
“Stop that!”
“I will.” She yelled out her laughter, and her eyes were wet and he was shaking her.
“Stop that!” he yelled into her face, standing up now. “Go in and tell your sister to come out, tell her I want to see her!”
“Tell her yourself, go tell her yourself.”
The laughing went on.
He put his hat on and stood there, bewildered, looking at her swinging hysterically in the swing, like a hunk of cold iron, and looking at the house. “Cut it out!” he cried.
He was starting to shake Lydia again when a voice said, “Stop that!”
He turned and there was Helen, behind the front porch screen, in cool shadow, only a paleness, a dim chalk outline. “Get away from her, leave her alone. Take your hands off her, Mister Larsen.”
“But, Helen!” he protested, running to the screen. The door was hooked and she put her hand out, as if tapping the screen to loose from it the last flies of the old summer.
“Get off the porch, please,” said Helen.
“Helen, let me in!”
John, come back! thought Lydia.