From the deeply crimson hue of his face it was apparent that the heat of the kitchen had affected him.

That, at least, must have been the reason Mary had ordered him away.

His face _felt_ hot.
He found a chair on the porch, and he sank into it, feeling like a criminal.

There was a certain humor in the situation.

Sanderson felt it, but could not appreciate it, and he sat, hunched forward, staring glumly into the dusk that had settled over the basin.
He had been sitting on the porch for some minutes when he became aware of a figure near him, and he turned slowly to see the little, anemic man standing not far away.
"Cooling off ?" suggested the little man.
Sanderson straightened.