He sat down opposite her, and as he looked at her he thought, "There sits one who should have been my housewife."
And he held a silent burial. All the hopes of his youth, his dreams of happiness, his unspoken wish for wife and children, and the small dear comforts of a home, all that was best and purest within him, that he had imagined dead long ago, at this moment, when he was conscious it still lived, he laid in a solemn grave.
She brewed the coffee, and the porcelain filter trembled in her hand. Then she handed him a steaming cup.
He drank it, and she began to move towards the door.
"Don't go, my child," he said, eager to enjoy to the full these few minutes. "Stay with me."
She paused irresolute, her eyes wide with wonder, then she slowly went back to her place.
He did not speak to her again, and for something to do, she cut bread and butter.
The clock struck eight and he sprang up. "Now for it, old boy. Now for it."
At the door he stopped and looked back. She was sitting turned away from him, her head a little on one side, her industrious hands fallen idly in her lap.
And now the anguish of parting unmanned him. He came behind her, and bending her head backwards he laid his hand on her forehead with a gentle caress.