w
he crumpled it into a wad and hurled it to the center of the table,
where it struck a sugar bowl, dropped back, and uncrumpled slowly,
reprovingly. "You--you----" Then bewilderment closed down again like a
fog over his countenance. "But why? I can't see----"

"Because it--because I can't stand it any longer. Flapping. This is
what you do. Like this."

And she did it. Did it with insulting fidelity, being a clever mimic.

"Well, all I can say is you're crazy, yelling like that, for nothing."

"It isn't nothing."

"Isn't, huh? If that isn't nothing, what is?" They were growing
incoherent. "What d'you mean, screeching like a maniac? Like a wild
woman? The neighbors'll think I've killed you. What d'you mean,
anyway!"

"I mean I'm tired of watching it, that's what. Sick and tired."

"Y'are, huh? Well, young lady, just let me tell YOU something----"

He told her. There followed one of those incredible quarrels, as
sickening as they are human, which can take place only between two
people who love each other; who love each other so well that each knows
with cruel certainty the surest way to wound the other; and who stab,
and tear, and claw at these vulnerable spots in exact proportion to
their love.

Ugly words. Bitter words. Words that neither knew they knew flew
between them like sparks between steel striking steel.

From him: "Trouble with you is you haven't got enough to do. That's
the trouble with half you women. Just lay around the house, rotting.
I'm a fool, slaving on the road to keep a good-for-nothing----"

"I suppose you call sitting around hotel lobbies slaving! I suppose
the house runs itself! How about my evenings? Sitting here alone,
night after night, when you're on the road."

Finally, "Well, if you don't like it," he snarled, and lifted his chair
by the back and slammed it down, savagely, "if you don't like it, why
don't you get out, hm? Why don't you get out?"

And from her, her eyes narrowed to two slits, her cheeks scarlet:

"Why, thanks. I guess I will."

Ten minutes later he had flung out of the house to catch the 8:19 for
Manitowoc. He marched down the street, his shoulders swinging
rhythmically to the weight of the burden he carried--his black leather
handbag and the shiny tan sample case, battle-scarred, both, from many
encounters with ruthless porters and busmen and bellboys. For four
years, as he left for his semi-monthly trip, he and Terry had observed
a