He drew his pipe from some pocket and filled it from a worn tobacco pouch.
Drusilla watched him interestedly.
"Now I know what this room needed. It needs tobacco. It'll make the curtains smell as if people lived here. You know the greatest trouble I find with this place, John, is to have it feel human. Everything is so sort of—sort of—dead—with just me a-creepin' round, and James and William tip-toein', and the hired girls never speakin' except to say, 'No, ma'am' or 'Yes, ma'am.' Why, sometimes I'd like to hear somebody drop somethin', or get mad, or stomp, or do somethin' as if they was alive. Here, help me pull up the chair closer by the fire, where I can see you without putting on my specs. There, that is comfortable. Now tell me all about yourself."
John looked into the fire dreamily.
"Drusilla, I am afraid I have been a failure. Your mother was right; I've been always a dreamer and a failure."
Drusilla leaned toward him.
"Never you mind, John. So long as you haven't been a dreamer and a democrat, I can stand it. I never could abide democrats. Why didn't you ever marry?"
John looked at her.
"I couldn't, Drusilla."
Drusilla flushed at the look in his face and sat back in her chair.