Poor Mrs. Tressiter's baby had died last week and now, suddenly, she
burst out crying and had to leave the room. There was a little twitter of
sympathy. How good they all were to one another, these people, stupid and
odd perhaps in some ways, but so brave for themselves and so generous to
one another. It was no mean gathering of souls that Mrs. Brockett's dingy
gas illuminated.
Every now and again the heavy curtains blew forward in the wind and the gas
flared. There was no conversation, and the wind could be heard driving the
rain past the windows.
III
Peter, that evening, took the manuscript of "Reuben Hallard" into Miss
Monogue's room. Since her mother died Norah Monogue had had a bed
sitting-room to herself. The bed was hidden by a high screen, the wall
paper was a dark green, and low bookshelves, painted white, ran round the
room. There were no pictures (she always said that until she could have
good ones she wouldn't have any at all). There were some brown pots and
vases on the shelves and a writing-table with a typewriter by the window.
When Peter came in, Norah Monogue was sitting in a low chair over a rather
miserable fire; a little pool of light above her head came from two candles
on the mantelpiece--otherwise the room was in darkness.
"Shall I turn on the gas?" she said, when she saw who it was.
Pages:
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248