He had never loved before,
and there was still a part of him that was only twenty years of age. He
could not tell whether he was profoundly sad or deeply happy; but he was
not ashamed of the tears that brought the smart to his eyes and the ache
to his throat. He did not hear the timid rapping on his door, and it was
not until the door itself opened that he looked up quickly and saw the
little retired dressmaker standing on the threshold, carrying a cup of
tea on a tiny Japanese tray. She held it toward him.
"I was making some tea," she said, "and I thought you would like to have
a cup."
Never after could the little dressmaker understand how she had brought
herself to do this thing. One moment she had been sitting quietly on her
side of the partition, stirring her cup of tea with one of her Gorham
spoons. She was quiet, she was peaceful. The evening was closing
down tranquilly. Her room was the picture of calmness and order. The
geraniums blooming in the starch boxes in the window, the aged goldfish
occasionally turning his iridescent flank to catch a sudden glow of the
setting sun. The next moment she had been all trepidation. It seemed to
her the most natural thing in the world to make a steaming cup of tea
and carry it in to Old Grannis next door.
Pages:
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386