"Oh, won't you — won't you please—" He turned his head, looking appealingly at the little old dressmaker.
"Wait, I'll help you," she said. She came into the room, up to the table, and moved the pamphlets to one side.
"Thanks, thanks," murmured Old Grannis, setting down the tray.
"Now — now — now I will go back," she exclaimed, hurriedly.
"No — no," returned the old Englishman. "Don't go, don't go. I've been so lonely to-night — and last night too — all this year — all my life," he suddenly cried.
"I–I—I've forgotten the sugar."
"But I never take sugar in my tea."
"But it's rather cold, and I've spilled it — almost all of it."
"I'll drink it from the saucer." Old Grannis had drawn up his armchair for her.
"Oh, I shouldn't. This is — this is SO — You must think ill of me." Suddenly she sat down, and resting her elbows on the table, hid her face in her hands.