when supper was done and the children in bed she moved about the room for a few minutes putting things to rights. eldridge, sitting by the table, held his newspaper in his hand and now and then he rustled it and turned it over; his eyes did not leave the little black printed marks, but his real eyes were not following the marks; they were watching the woman; they tried to dart upon her in her plainness and make her speak. there was something monstrous to him—that they should be here together, in this room—he could have touched her with his hand as she moved past him—yet they were a thousand miles apart. he cleared his throat; he would force her, accuse her, make her reveal what was going on behind the earnest-looking glasses.... he turned the paper and began another page.... if he were another man he might spring at her—take her by the throat—force her back—back against the wall—and make her speak! she had finished tidying the room and came over to the table, the torn coat in her hand; she was looking down at the frayed threads in the rent, the little line between her eyes; he did not look up or move; he could hear her breathing—then she gave a little sigh and laid the coat on the table.... she was leaving the room. his eyes leaped after her and came back.
when she returned she spread the roll of pieces on the table and selected one, slipping it in beneath the rent; he could see—without taking his eyes from the page—he could see the anxious, faintly red knuckles and her fingers fitting the piece in place with deft, roughened tips. she had a kind of special skill at mending, making old things new. when they were first married it had been one of their little jokes—how lucky she was to have married a poor man. he had kissed her fingers one day—he recalled it—when she had shown him the little skilful darn in his coat; he had called it a kind of poem and he had kissed her. it seemed almost shameless to him, behind his paper—the foolishness was shameless—of kissing her for that....
she was sewing swiftly now with the short, still movements that came and went like breaths; her head was bent over the coat and he could see the parting of her hair; he dropped his eye to it for a minute and rustled the paper and turned it vaguely. “i was in at merwin’s this afternoon,” he said.
the needle paused a dart—and went on rhythmically, in and out. “did you like it?” she asked. she had not lifted her head from her work.
he turned a casual page and read on—“oh, so-so.” it was the sort of absent-minded talk they often had—a kind of thinking out loud without interest in one another.
“it is a popular place, isn’t it?”
she was smoothing the edges of the patch thoughtfully; there was a little smile on her lip.
he folded his paper. “i’m going to bed,” he announced.
she glanced quickly at the clock and resumed her work. “i must finish this. he hasn’t any other to wear.” the needle went in and out.
eldridge rose and stretched himself above her. he looked down at her—at the swift-moving hands and grey closeness of her dress. he would like to take her in his hands and crush out of her the thoughts—make her speak out the thoughts that followed the swift-going needle; he did not know that he wanted this—he was only feeling over and over, in some deep, angry place—“what the devil was she doing there? what the——”
he moved about the room a minute and ’went out. the woman by the table sewed on. a bolt shot in the front hall and eldridge’s feet mounted the stairs slowly. then the room was quiet—only the clock and the needle.
presently the needle stopped—the woman’s hands lay folded in her lap. the figure was motionless, the head bent—only across her face moved the little smile.... the clock travelled round and whirred its warning note and struck, and she only stirred a little, as if a breath escaped her, and took up her work, looking at it blindly.
a sound came in the hall and she looked up.
he stood in the doorway, his old dressing-gown wrapped around him, his hands gaunt, with the little hairs at the wrist uncovered by cuffs.
she looked at him, smiling absently. there was something almost beautiful in her face as she lifted it to him—“when are you coming to bed?” he asked harshly.
“why, right now, eldridge—i must have been dreaming.” she gathered up the work from her lap. “i hope i haven’t kept you awake.”
he stood looking at her a minute. then he wheeled about without response. his feet beneath the bath gown moved awkwardly. but the spine in the bath gown had a cold, dignified, offended look—a kind of grotesque stateliness—as it disappeared through the doorway.
the woman looked after it, the little, gathering smile still on her face. then she turned toward the lamp and put it out, and the radiant smile close to the lamp became a part of the dark.
