Mrs. Bushey seemed appeased. As she finished the buttoning she looked about the room, her glance roaming over my possessions. For some obscure reason I flinched before that inspection. Some of them are sacred, relics of my mother and of the years when I was a wife—only a few of these. Mrs. Bushey’s look was like an auctioneer’s hand fingering them, appraising their value.
Finally it fell to the rug. I had forgotten it; now was my chance. Suddenly it seemed a painful subject to broach and I sought for a tactful opening. Mrs. Bushey pressed its crimson surface with her foot.
“Isn’t this a beautiful rug?” she said. “It’s a real Samarcand.”
I smothered a start. I had had a real Samarcand once.
Mrs. Bushey, eying the magnified insects with solicitude, continued:
“I wouldn’t like to tell you how much I paid for this. It was a ridiculous sum for me to give. But I love pretty things, and when you took the apartment I put it in here because I saw at once you were used to only the best.”
I murmured faintly.
“So I was generous and gave you my treasure. You will be careful of it, won’t you? Not drop anything on it or let people come in with muddy boots.”
I said I would. I found myself engaging with ardor to love and cherish a thing I abhorred. It’s happened before, it’s the kind of thing I’ve been doing all my life.
Mrs. Bushey gave it a loving stroke with her foot.