We went up the uncarpeted front stairs, into the square upper hall which was lighted by an east window over the front door. I showed her first the spare room on the northeast corner, which connected with the bath, and then the second front chamber opposite, which was not yet furnished even with a bed. Then we entered my chamber, where the western sun was streaming in. She stood in the door a second, looking about, and then advanced and surveyed the bed.
“The bedclothes aren’t tucked in right,” she said.
“I know it,” I answered sadly. “I have to fix them myself every night. Mrs. Pillig is better on pies.”
The girl leaned over and remade my monastic white cot, giving the pillow a final pat to smooth it. Then she inspected the shingles and old photographs on the walls, turning from an undergraduate picture of me, in a group, to scan my face, and shaking her head.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Don’t tell me I’m getting bald.”
“No, not bald,” she answered, “but your eyes don’t see visions as they did then.”
I looked at her, startled a little. “What makes you say that?” I asked.
“Forgive me,” she replied quickly. “I meant nothing.”
“You meant what you said,” I answered, moving close to her, “and it is true. It is true of all men, and all women, in a way–of all save the chosen few who are the poets and seers. ’Shades of the prison house begin to close’–you know that shadow, too, I guess. I have no picture of you when you were younger. No–you are still the poet; you see aqueducts of roses. So you think I’m prosy now!”
“I didn’t say that,” she answered, very low.