y the back and slammed it down, savagely, "if you don't like it, why
don't you get out, h'm? 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
hand-bag and the shiny tan sample case, battle-scarred, both, from many
encounters with ruthless porters and 'bus men and bell boys. For four
years, as he left for his semi-monthly trip, he and Terry had observed a
certain little ceremony (as had the neighbours). She would stand in the
doorway watching him down the street, the heavier sample-case banging
occasionally at his shin. The depot was only three blocks away. Terry
watched him with fond, but unillusioned eyes, which proves that she
really loved him. He was a dapper, well-dressed fat man, with a weakness
for pronounced patterns in suitings, and addicted to brown derbies. One
week on the road, one week at home. That was his routine. The wholesale
grocery trade liked Platt, and he had for his customers the fondness
that a travelling salesman has who is successful in his territory.
Before his marriage to Terry Sheehan his little red address book had
been overwhelming proof against the theory that nobody loves a fat man.

Terry, standing in the doorway, always knew that when he reached the
corner, just where Schroeder's house threatened to hide him from view,
he would stop, drop the sample case, wave his hand just once, pick up
the sample case and go on, proceeding backward for a step or two, until
Schroeder's house made good its threat. It was a comic scene in the
eyes of the onlooker, perhaps because a chubby Romeo offends the sense
of fitness. The neighbours, lurking behind their parlour curtains, had
laughed at first. But after awhile they learned to look for that little
scene, and to take it unto themselves, as if it were a personal thing.
Fifteen-year wives whose husbands had long since abandoned flowery
farewells used to get a vicarious thrill out of it, and to eye Terry
with a sort of envy.

This morning Orville Platt did not even falter when he reached
Schroeder's corner. He marched straight on, looking steadily ahead, the
heavy bags swinging from either hand. Even if he had stopped--though she
knew he wouldn't--Terry Platt would not have see