Basil Ransom had seen
very few pictures, there were none in Mississippi; but he had a vision
at times of something that would be more refined than the real world,
and the situation in which he now found himself pleased him almost as
much as if it had been a striking work of art. He was unable to see, as
I have said, whether Miss Birdseye were taking in the prospect through
open or only, imagination aiding (she had plenty of that), through
closed, tired, dazzled eyes. She appeared to him, as the minutes elapsed
and he sat beside her, the incarnation of well-earned rest, of patient,
submissive superannuation. At the end of her long day's work she might
have been placed there to enjoy this dim prevision of the peaceful
river, the gleaming shores, of the paradise her unselfish life had
certainly qualified her to enter, and which, apparently, would so soon
be opened to her. After a while she said, placidly, without turning:
"I suppose it's about time I should take my remedy again. It does seem
as if she had found the right thing; don't you think so?"
"Do you mean the contents of that tumbler? I shall be delighted to give
it to you, and you must tell me how much you take." And Basil Ransom,
getting up, possessed himself of the glass on the table.
At the sound of his voice Miss Birdseye pushed back her straw hat by a
movement that was familiar to her, and twisting about her muffled figure
a little (even in August she felt the cold, and had to be much covered
up to sit out), directed at him a speculative, unastonished gaze.
Pages:
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189