For one bright breezy creature I grew to feel a real regard. All the months that I had known her, seen her almost daily, never once had I heard a single cry of pain escape her lips, never once had I heard her cursing fate. Of the many who called upon her in her charming flat, not one had ever, to my knowledge, offered her consolation or condolence. It seemed to me cruel, callous. The over-burdened heart, finding no outlet for its imprisoned grief, finding no sympathetic ear into which to pour its tale of woe, breaks, we are told; anyhow, it isn’t good for it. I decided—no one else seeming keen—that I would supply that sympathetic ear. The very next time I found myself alone with her I introduced the subject.
“You have been living here in Dresden a long time, have you not?” I asked.
“About five years,” she answered, “on and off.”
“And all alone,” I commented, with a sigh intended to invite to confidence.
“Well, hardly alone,” she corrected me, while a look of patient resignation added dignity to her piquant features. “You see, there are the dear children always round about me, during the holidays.”
“Besides,” she added, “the people here are real kind to me; they hardly ever let me feel myself alone. We make up little parties, you know, picnics and excursions. And then, of course, there is the Opera and the Symphony Concerts, and the subscription dances. The dear old king has been doing a good deal this winter, too; and I must say the Embassy folks have been most thoughtful, so far as I am concerned. No, it would not be right for me to complain of loneliness, not now that I have got to know a few people, as it were.”
“But don’t you miss your husband?” I suggested.
A cloud passed over her usually sunny face. “Oh, please don’t talk of him,” she said, “it makes me feel real sad, thinking about him.”
But having commenced, I was determined that my sympathy should not be left to waste.
“What did he die of?” I asked.