orthodox manner of announcing unexpected departures. Bud read the
letter, crumpled it in his fist, and threw it toward the little
heating stove. "If that's the way yuh feel about it, I'll tell
the world you can go and be darned!" he snorted, and tried to let
that end the matter so far as he was concerned. But he could not
shake off the sense of having been badly used. He did not stop to
consider that while he was working off his anger, that day, Marie
had been rocking back and forth, crying and magnifying the
quarrel as she dwelt upon it, and putting a new and sinister
meaning into Bud's ill-considered utterances. By the time Bud was
thinking only of the bargain car's hidden faults, Marie had
reached the white heat of resentment that demanded vigorous
action. Marie was packing a suitcase and meditating upon the
scorching letter she meant to write.

Judging from the effect which the letter had upon Bud, it must
have been a masterpiece of its kind. He threw the box of
chocolates into the wood-box, crawled out of the window by which
he had entered, and went down town to a hotel. If the house
wasn't good enough for Marie, let her go. He could go just as
fast and as far as she could. And if she thought he was going to
hot-foot it over to her mother's and whine around and beg her to
come home, she had another think coming.

He wouldn't go near the darn place again, except to get his
clothes. He'd bust up the joint, by thunder. He'd sell off the
furniture and turn the house over to the agent again, and Marie
could whistle for a home. She had been darn glad to get into that
house, he remembered, and away from that old cat of a mother. Let
her stay there now till she was darn good and sick of it. He'd