I told her my name and said I wanted to ask her about a student she had had in the eighth grade.
"Please come in, Mr. Howard. Sit there in the red chair. I was having tea. Would you care for some?"
"No, thank you."
"Then one of these cookies. A friend of mine bakes them. They're very good."
She held the plate in precisely the right spot. I took one and thanked her. She put the plate back on the table and sat facing me. She found her teacup and lifted it to her lips.
"Now what student was it?"
"Do you remember Timmy Warden?"
"Of course I remember him! He was a charmer. I was told how he died. I was dreadfully sorry to hear it. A man came to see me six or seven months ago. He said he'd been in that prison camp with Timmy. I never could quite understand why he came to see me. His name was Fitzmartin and he asked all sorts of odd questions. I couldn't feel at ease with him. He didn't seem—quite right if you know what I mean. When you lose one sense you seem to become more aware of nuances."
"I was in that camp too, Miss Major."
"Oh, I'm so sorry. Probably Mr. Fitzmartin is a friend of yours."