Laura let it shower through her fingers. It was as soft and fine as her own. But Grandmamma’s hair—she could just remember—had been silver, not gold.... Queer.... Life was queer....
She watched him coil and fold and put away again the golden hair.
“Was Grandmamma—? Did Grandmamma—? Did you and Grandmamma—ever get angry with each other?” she asked him abruptly.
Gran’papa was staring at the fire. She knew by the turn of his head that he had heard her, but he made no answer.
They were silent for a time, each seeing what they chose in the red and black grotesques of the coal.
“She had the gentlest face,” said Gran’papa at last, his lips scarcely moving. “Serene. Patient. But I have known her—firm.”
Laura nodded softly.
“He is, too——”
There was a shadow of a smile on Gran’papa’s face, the smile we keep for our thoughts and our ghosts.
“It never lasted long,” said Gran’papa. “Only once—before I married her.” He was silent again.