Across this letter lying on her knees, Noel gazed at the spidery movement on the wall. Was it acquiescence that the old lady knitted, or was it resistance—a challenge to death itself, a challenge dancing to the tune of the needles like the grey ghost of human resistance to Fate! She wouldn't give in, this oldest lady in the world, she meant to knit till she fell into the grave. And so Leila had gone! It hurt her to know that; and yet it pleased her. Acquiescence—resistance! Why did Daddy always want to choose the way she should go? So gentle he was, yet he always wanted to! And why did he always make her feel that she must go the other way? The sunlight ceased to stream in, the old lady's shadow faded off the wall, but the needles still sang their little tune. And the girl said:
“Do you enjoy knitting, Mrs. Adam?”
The old lady looked at her above the spectacles.
“Enjoy, my dear? It passes the time.”
“But do you want the time to pass?”
There was no answer for a moment, and Noel thought: 'How dreadful of me to have said that!'
“Eh?” said the old lady.
“I said: Isn't it very tiring?”
“Not when I don't think about it, my dear.”
“What do you think about?”