"He is nice. I think he is like you," she said. "How old is he, Peter?"
"Just about seventeen."
"Like you he will be the writer for the Bulletin? Is it so that you want it?"
"Yes, I've set my heart on that."
"It is good. He knows about the baseball that you know and all your sport. Is he big too like you, Peter?"
"I guess he must be by now. He sent me a picture. It's an enlargement of a snapshot. Just a head like one of these motion picture closeups."
Maria held out her hand casually. "Let me see."
She took the picture under a lamp and looked closely. For a full minute or more Maria held the picture and stared at it. She said nothing, but Peter was conscious in some way that the casual mood had gone. He could tell that she was enormously moved. He did not even dare break in upon her silence. Still looking at the picture Maria whispered, "He is my son. It is my nose. It is my nose exactly."
"Yes," said Peter, in a matter of fact way, "there is quite a resemblance."
Maria waved her left hand impatiently. "No, no, it is not a resemblance. The rest does not look alike. It is the nose. That is not a resemblance. It is the same. It is my nose. Here you see," she slapped the bridge of her nose violently, "so it would be if the bone it had been broken. You see in the picture of my son it is the break. The same. The hook in the nose. But it is not broken. Never it has not been?"