THE TORRENTS OF SPRING 45
"Good afternoon, dear Scripps," she said. "I've been reading a story by Ruth Suckow."
"Hello, Diana," Scripps answered. He set down his lunch-pail. She looked worn and old. He could afford to be polite.
"What was the story about, Diana?" he asked.
"It was about a little girl in Iowa," Diana said. She moved toward him. "It was about people on the land. It reminded me a little of my own Lake Country."
"That so?" asked Scripps. In some way the pump-factory had hardened him. His speech had become more clipped. More like these hardy Northern workers'. But his mind was the same.
"Would you like me to read a little of it out loud?" Diana asked. "They're some lovely woodcuts."
"How about going down to the beanery?" Scripps said.
"As you wish, dear," Diana said. Then her voice broke. "I wish—oh, I wish you'd never seen that place!" She wiped away her tears. Scripps had not even seen them. "I'll bring the bird, dear," Diana said. "He hasn't been out all day."
Together they went down the street to the beanery. They did not walk hand in hand now. They walked like what are called old married people. Mrs. Scripps carried the bird-cage. The bird was happy in the warm wind. Men lurching along, drunk with the spring, passed them. Many spoke to Scripps. He was well known and well liked in the town now. Some, as they lurched by, raised their hats to Mrs. Scripps. She responded vaguely. If I can only hold him, she was thinking. If I can only hold him. As they walked along the slushy snow of the narrow sidewalk of the Northern town, something began to beat
