He inserted his latchkey, grumbling still. “Wash dishes—will he? Damn him!—Umph!—Damn him!” And yet it was as if he had said: “Bless him!” The great door swung noiselessly open, and he went in.
II
The woman was looking into the dusk. Her hair, short like a boy’s, curled a little about the ears. She pushed it back as she looked, her eyes deepening and widening. It was a gentle face, with a sharp line between the eyes, that broke its quiet. She sank back with a little sigh. Foolish to look.... He could not come. She must think of something.... The twilights were long and heavy.... What was it he had written?... Hollyhocks? yes; that was it!—in the garden. He had said she should have them—next summer. She leaned back with closed eyes and folded hands, watching them—pink and rose and crimson, white with flushing red, standing stiff and straight against the wall. They were so cool and sturdy, and they brought the sunshine.... The dark floated wide and lost itself in a sky of light. The smile crept back to her lips. She stirred a little. The door opened and closed.... His hands scarcely touched her as he bent and kissed her.
“It’s you—!” a little cry of doubt and delight.
“It’s me, mother.” The words laughed to her quietly.
She put out a hand. “How long can you stay?” She was stroking his coat.
“Always.”
“What—?” The hand pushed him from her. The eyes scanned his face.