She turned her palms up and made a face. “And did you hear me?” She mimicked herself. “‘I assume you’ve had breakfast — no, not there, that’s my husband’s place.’ I just simply lost my nerve. Do you suppose I really am a nut?”
I arose, circled the end of the table, sat in the chair at her right, took the napkin, picked up the plate and extended my arm, and demanded, “That piece of toast, please?”
She goggled at me a full three seconds before she moved a hand for the toast, slow motion. The hand was quite steady.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but I suppose I ought to eat it if you want this to stick, and it’s that godawful cellophane special, so if there’s any jelly or marmalade or honey...”
She got up and left through the swinging door. In a little she was back with an assortment of jars on a tray. I selected one that was labeled plum jam and helped myself. She made another piece of toast, buttered it and took a bite, and poured more coffee for us. She ate the last crumb of toast before she spoke.
“If you hadn’t been rude about the bread I would soon have been crying.”
“Yeah, I thought so.”
“Will you take that coat and hat away with you?”
“Certainly.”
She was frowning at me. She put out a hand as if to touch my arm, then withdrew it. “Do you mean to say you understand?”