“I’ll do as much for you some day,” declared Miss Sullivan, like a creature in a fable, and off she went.
The room was very still. At intervals the elevated trains went by with a thundering roar, leaving behind a sort of vacuum of quietness. The old gentleman looked up.
“Piece lemon meringue pie,” he said briefly.
“Kitchen’s closed,” Madeline replied, with equal brevity.
This annoyed him very much; but in view of the fact that he was known never to leave more than a nickel for a tip, his annoyance never caused much concern in Compson’s. He got up, folded his newspaper, felt in all his pockets, and very slowly took down his overcoat.
Madeline, leaning against the wall in a careless attitude, refused to show signs of impatience. Indeed, when she saw him struggling into the tight sleeves of his shabby old coat, she felt an impulse of scornful pity, and came to his aid. He didn’t thank her. Apparently he preferred to consider it her fault that he was old and slow and stiff, and couldn’t enjoy his dinner.
After he had gone, she began turning off the few remaining lights. The place was nearly in darkness when the door opened and two men came in.
“Closed!” said Madeline.
But the taller of the two led his companion to a table and pushed him into a chair.
“Can’t you manage a cup of coffee?” he entreated. “My friend’s ill.”