She made no reply, but opened the door into the cool and shaded little parlor. He followed her in and closed the door behind him.
“I couldn't help it. I know I promised.”
“Then she—?”
“She's still living. Playing with paper dolls—that's the latest.”
Tillie sat down suddenly on one of the stiff chairs. Her lips were as white as her face.
“I thought, when I saw you—”
“I was afraid you'd think that.”
Neither spoke for a moment. Tillie's hands twisted nervously in her lap. Mr. Schwitter's eyes were fixed on the window, which looked back on the McKee yard.
“That spiraea back there's not looking very good. If you'll save the cigar butts around here and put them in water, and spray it, you'll kill the lice.”
Tillie found speech at last.
“I don't know why you come around bothering me,” she said dully. “I've been getting along all right; now you come and upset everything.”
Mr. Schwitter rose and took a step toward her.
“Well, I'll tell you why I came. Look at me. I ain't getting any younger, am I? Time's going on, and I'm wanting you all the time. And what am I getting? What've I got out of life, anyhow? I'm lonely, Tillie!”
“What's that got to do with me?”
“You're lonely, too, ain't you?”
“Me? I haven't got time to be. And, anyhow, there's always a crowd here.”
“You can be lonely in a crowd, and I guess—is there any one around here you like better than me?”
“Oh, what's the use!” cried poor Tillie. “We can talk our heads off and not get anywhere. You've got a wife living, and, unless you intend to do away with her, I guess that's all there is to it.”
“Is that all, Tillie? Haven't you got
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