CHAPTER XIV
AFTER MANY YEARS
Her life intensive rather than extensive; striking root downward, deep in the heart, not wide in the world.
A memory of dew and light, threaded with tears.
Not long before the breaking out of the present European war, I was in London, and needed a typist, so I went to a proper Intelligence Office on the Strand, and left a request directing them to send any likely applicant to my hotel for a conversation. On the next afternoon I heard a woman’s voice in an altercation with the bellboy. I opened the door, and the boy said he could not quite make out the lady; he was very sorry indeed, but the lady would not explain; and so forth.
The lady looked at the premature little man with contempt, and said a few passionate words of such unmistakable Scotch, that I felt the bellboy to be well within the pale of excusable ignorance.
“Are you from the Intelligence Office?” I asked.
“Yes, Madam. At the request of Scott and Lubbock I came to see you about copying a novel.”
“Come in then,” and as soon as the door was closed, I offered my hand, and said only one word—“Fife?”
“Ay,” she answered proudly, “Fife! I can speak good English, but the stupid lad made me angry, and then I hae to tak’ to the Scotch. I don’t hae the English words to quarrel wi’, and indeed if you want a few words of that kind, the Scotch words hae a tang in them that stings like a nettle, even if folk cannot quite make out the lady or gentleman that uses them.”
I could not help laughing. “What words did you use?” I asked.