“Nothing. Just a little tired,” I answered, and started on up the stairs.
She followed. In the hall above I stopped at the door of my apartment, and she moved on toward hers. Then she turned suddenly, and came back to me.
“I sure would like to do something for you if I could, Mr. Allen,” she said, in her Southern way of speaking.
I turned and looked at her. In her face was an expression different from any that I had ever seen there-more sincere and earnest. It commanded a respect that I had never felt for her. I mumbled something or other in the way of thanks, to which she paid no attention, but went on to say:-
“I know it must be mighty hard to have to look for a new job after you have worked for so many years in the same place.”
I cringed, and I think I must have scowled. For I was wondering how she had found out that I was looking for another job. I thought that I had kept the fact pretty carefully concealed. But I guess the most of us are ostriches, stretching our heads down in the sands of our own secret conceits. While I stood there, wondering, she kept on talking. The next thing that I caught was:-
“Don’t reckon you’ll want to take any advice from me, but you can’t afford to let yourself grow old like this, Mr. Allen. Nobody wants us if we’re old.”
I tried to laugh. It was a sickly attempt. What she had said hit me in so many sore spots that I squirmed to get away. But inside my own apartment, the thing that she had said repeated itself in my thoughts.
“You can’t afford to let yourself grow old.”
I smiled satirically. How folks can fool themselves. That little old maid, with her dyed hair and painted face, thinking that she was hiding the fact of her age!