He transmitted her order, and then went to a window and looked down into the court-yard.
"Mr. Mears!"
She had finished the letter, and was carefully folding it. "There. You had better keep it—with the other papers.... Sit down, please. Stay with me till the car comes."
Mr. Mears sat down, put the folded letter in his pocket, but did not speak. He noticed that her eyes were free from moisture, and her quiet voice betrayed no emotion of any sort.
"Ah, well;" and she gave a little sigh. "He wanted for nothing. His friend says so explicitly.... Mr. Mears, she cannot have been a bad woman—according to her lights. You see, she has stuck to him faithfully."
Then, after a long pause, she spoke very kindly of the dead man; and Mears noticed the pitying tenderness that had come into her voice. But it could not have been called emotion: it was a benign, comprehensive pity, a ready sympathy for weakness and misfortune, and no deep disturbance of personal feeling. Mears had heard her talk in just such a tone when she had been told about the sad end of a total stranger.
"Poor fellow! A wasted life, Mr. Mears!... And he had many good points. He was naturally a worker. Considerable capacity—he seemed to promise great things in the beginning.... You know, you thought well of him at first."
"At first," said Mears. "I admit it. He was a good salesman."
"He was a grand salesman, Mr. Mears.... I have never met a better one."