“You said you didn't want me to come to see you any more.”
“But I didn't mean it. You must have known I didn't mean it.”
“But you said it, anyhow. I don't care to go where I'm not wanted. When people say a thing, how am I to know they don't mean it?”
“But I said it when I was vexed. And what people say when they're vexed—other people ought not to count it. It isn't fair. And really and truly, Gregory, I didn't mean it; and I'm sorry I said it; and I'm sorry I spoke to you the way I did; and—and that's why I've come here, Gregory; I've come to ask your pardon.”
“Oh! certainly; don't mention it; no apology's necessary,” I said. I would have given anything to have taken her in my arms, and kissed her, and begged her pardon; but I was too stiff-necked and self-conscious.
“And then,” she went on, “after you came back from Norwich, and Mr. Flisch told me what Mr. Finkelstein had told him—about how disappointed you had been, and everything—I—I felt so sorry for you, Gregory, and so sorry that I had spoken to you that way; and I wanted to come right over, and tell you I didn't mean it, and beg your pardon, and ask you to make up with me; but I thought maybe you mightn't like it, and that you might be angry with me, and—and not—not—I don't know; but anyway, I didn't come. And then I just hoped and hoped all the time that maybe you would come to see me; but you never did. And then at last I just couldn't wait any longer, I felt so guilty and sorry and everything; and—and so I stopped in on my way home to day; and, O, Gregory! I really didn't mean to hurt your feelings, and I hope you'll forgive me, Gregory, and not be angry with me any more.”
By this time I had gone up, and taken her in my arms; and, “O, Rosalind!” I cried, “don't talk like that. You—you make me feel so ashamed. You—you humiliate me so. What you said to me that day—it was just right. You were just right, and I was wrong. And I deserved to have you talk to me ten times worse, I was so horrid and stuck-up and everything. And I—I'm awfully sorry. And I've wanted—I've wanted to go and see you all the time, and tell you I was sorry; only—only I don't know—I suppose I was too proud. And I just hope that you'll forgive me, and forgive the way I acted here to-day a little while ago, and—O, Rosalind! I'm so glad to be friends with you again.”
“What!” exclaimed Mr. Finkelstein, entering from the shop. “Hugging and kissing each udder! Vail, my kracious! Vail, if I aifer! Vail, dot beats de deck! Oh! you needn't take no notice of me. You needn't stop on my account. I don't mind it. I been dere myself already, when I was your age. You needn't bloosh like dot, Rosie; dough it's mighty becoming to you, dot's a faict. And, Kraikory, you needn't look so sheebish. You ain't done nodings to be ashamed of. And I'm awful sorry I came in shust when I did, and inderrubded you; only I didn't know what you was doing, as you haidn't notified me, and I vanted to speak to Kraikory about a little maitter of business. Dere's an old feller outside dere in de store what cain't talk no English; and I guess he was a Frenchman; so I tought I'd get Kraikory to come along and aisk him what he vants, if you could spare him, Rosie—hey?” So Rosalind and I followed Mr. Finkelstein into the shop.
A tall, thin, and very poor-looking old man stood before the counter, resting his hands upon it—small and well-shaped hands, but so fleshless that you could have counted the bones in them, and across which the blue, distended veins stretched like wires. His stove-pipe hat was worn and lustreless; his black frock coat was threadbare, and whitish along the seams. His old-fashioned standing collar was frayed at the edge; and a red mark on each side of his neck, beneath his ears, showed that the frayed edge had chafed his skin. His face was colorless and emaciated; his eyes, sunken deep under his brows, had a weary, sad, half-frightened look in them that compelled your pity. His moustache and imperial were as white as snow. A very forlorn, pathetic, poor-looking old man, indeed. Yet there was also something refined, dignified, and even courtly in his appearance; and I thought to myself that he had seen better days; and my heart ached for him. It was with an unwonted gentleness that I inquired: “You are French, Monsieur? I put myself at your service.”
His sad old eyes fixed themselves eagerly upon mine, and in a quavering old voice he answered, “Je cherche un jeune homme qui s'appelle Grégoire Brace”—I seek a young man named Gregory Brace. “C'est ici que il demeure?”—It is here that he lives?