" insisted Mr. Macomber, still urging him forward. He
seemed distressed in a vague sort of way.

They sauntered out of the gate, prisoner and captive, to the corner
drug store. Joe mechanically selected a cigar from a proffered box.
Mr. Macomber did likewise and gravely and deliberately clipped the end
in the mechanical clipper on the counter, lighted it, and took a few
ruminative puffs, gazing at the ceiling. Then he and Joe walked slowly
to the street.

"Women fly off the handle," he ventured at length without looking at
Joe. "You mustn't mind what the old lady says."

"She misunderstood," said Joe. "I suppose I was a bit too much on the
job." It was not easy to express himself and he laughed nervously.
"But I don't think you can blame me much." He looked at the old man
for encouragement and found none. "What I can't understand is, that
nothing was said to me before. It could have been prevented if it was
so objectionable. You don't think there is anything wrong, do you?"

Mr. Macomber shook his head and Joe proceeded to vent the vials of his
dismay. A taxi driver escaping from the drug store passed them as they
were absorbed in their conversation and stared at them in curiosity.
The old man stood chewing his cigar, his eyes on the ground, the
breeze softly ruffing the nebulous hairs that fringed his bald head.

Joe concluded his oration. There was nothing more he could add. And
Mr. Macomber, raising his eyes, looked at him frankly. "Seen you
before, ain't I? Used to be at Bromley's?"

"Yes."

"I'm foreman there. Cultivator room."

And Joe remembered. It did not exactly add to his satisfaction. "Sure
you are," and he tried to make his voice heartily friendly.

They walked slowly back toward the house. At the gate they paused for
an awkward moment, and then Mr. Macomber held out his hand.

"See you again," he said. "Don't worry about what the old lady said to
you. It's the heat. It's all right. It's all right." He turned to go.
He had made no reference to Myrtle at all.

It was over. Joe stood on the curbing and watched the sturdy figure in
its sagging vest and collarless shirt plod up the walk to the house.
He could not help looking furtively for just a glance at that upstairs
window and caught a flash of white and then vacuity. And then
crestfallen and hot and sullen and ashamed, he sprang into the car and
drove away.

On his way down Broadway he had a puncture. Fortunately it occurred
just half a bloc