His words sounded poetical to him as he spoke; he was very young. Julie smiled; she seemed less divine out in the sunlight.
“I don’t feel that way, but Mother is ill and insists on my going; an empty pew doesn’t look well.”
Floyd was shocked. He had read in the “great” writers those traditional truisms we repeat mechanically. “The woman’s emotional nature endows her with the gift of Faith; she has held aloft the Banner of Religion in the great struggle against skepticism.”
They walked down Fifth Avenue. There was an expression he had never seen in Julie’s calm face, an indefinable something, as if she had pulled down a veil over her eyes. Before her house, she didn’t give him her hand as usual. She was looking expectantly at the upper windows; he followed her gaze. She waved her hand, smilingly; there was a face looking out; the light made it transparent like yellow wax. In a moment it was gone.
“Who was that?”
“My grandfather.”
“Why haven’t I seen him before?”
“He doesn’t come downstairs.”
“Is he ill?”
“No. I’ve wanted to tell you for some time, but Mother said it was nobody’s business.”