Of course, he was not able always to satisfy their programme. Sometimes for weeks and weeks together no new books (not only fiction, of course: memoirs and travels they were very fond of) would be published; but when he really struck gold how happy they all were. I remember that I found them once—it was thirteen years ago—in a state of joyful excitement over one of Peter’s most inspired suggestions—Miss Jewett’s “Country of the Pointed Firs.” Never could three old ladies of simple tastes and warm hearts have been more delighted with a printed page. I wished Peter could have seen them.
Is he still acting as friend to that little town, I wonder. He was so capable that probably he has been promoted to a wider sphere. For that is what happens to these friends of the small town: they are raised to positions of more importance and better salaries, and the chances are that the old personal intimacy goes altogether. They may, for example, be elevated to the place of manager at, say, London Bridge. Then is all their kindliness and thoughtfulness over: they become machines: very targets for pennies and half-pennies all day long, with no time for the humaner intercourse.
Well, the price of getting on has always been heavy; but here it is paid not only by the friend but by the small town too. It is hard when nice old ladies are also penalized.
Gypsy
It is a shocking thing, after ringing the bell to inquire after a friend, to be told that she is dead.
That recently happened to me. I rang the bell and waited on the step. The door was at last opened by a man in livery, or at any rate uniform, who knew me. I made to enter, remarking “How is Delia?” “Delia?” he said. “Delia is dead.”
Here was a blow! I had been thinking of Delia all the way to Regent’s Park, seeing again in anticipation her sad and yearning eyes, her pathetic, dumb face, her auburn locks, feeling her confiding hand in mine.
“Dead!” I said.
“Yes,” he replied, “pneumonia. But Annie’s here if you’d like to see her. And Jerry too.”