In some way this made him suddenly conscious of her smallness and feminineness and of all the handicaps imposed upon her by God and by man. Mr. Petersen’s views about women were definite. She was neither above nor below, neither hallowed nor accursed, but a quite ordinary human being, like himself, equally responsible, equally privileged. A woman—the right sort—was a friend, simply. And he saw in Minnie a friend, candid and good-tempered.... (Minnie a friend!)
“I was so pleased,” she went on, “to find a horse here. Of course, I don’t really know much about them. I’ve never lived in the country, really. But I love animals. All animals. And I think I have a sort of knack with them——”
He was acquainted with Mrs. Defoe’s horse, a ridiculously coy old skeleton that came into the village once a week harnessed to a buggy and driven by a Negro truck farmer who cultivated the old lady’s arid fields on shares. He could not imagine anyone’s having much affection for that caricature. It touched him. He could think of nothing to say, and the young woman had once more to start up a conversation.
“I hope I haven’t made your lemonade too sweet!” she began, anxiously, but was interrupted by Mrs. Defoe calling from upstairs.
“Minnie! Minnie!”
“Excuse me,” she murmured, and vanished. He heard her running up the stairs, then not another sound for a long time. He sat still, with his glass in his hand, and waited.
She didn’t run down; she came slowly, with obvious reluctance.
“I’m very sorry,” she said, “but—Mrs. Defoe wants to know—if you’d be good enough to—wait just a little longer——”
She was very much distressed; said something about preserves and next week and the expensiveness of jelly glasses. Mr. Petersen’s face turned still redder.
“Pshaw!” he said, awkwardly, “It doesn’t matter to me. I can wait any length of time. Don’t worry. Tell Mrs. Defoe not to worry. I—perhaps she will send a message when she’s ready——”