"Oh, no," I said, "give it to some old lady who will think it is just tea."
He nodded. "You have made the economically correct adjustment," he said. "And that is a good deal of a trick."
One morning when I went in, I found him sitting at his table pressing the tips of his fingers to his closed eyes.
"Good morning, Miss Wakely," he said. "These two tools of mine are rusting out. It's a nuisance just now, with the proof coming."
I said: "Couldn't I read it to you?"
"Frankly, I'm afraid not;" he answered. "I belong to the half of mankind who can not be read to. I think that I couldn't bear it. But you may try."
He sat in a deep chair, with his back to the light, and I before him, with a little table for the proof. I read to him, doing my best to keep my mind on what I was reading. His bigness, his gentleness, his abstraction, his humor were like a constant speaking presence, even when he was silent.
When I had read for ten minutes, he interrupted me.
"It's wonderful," he said. "You can do it. I'm trying to get at the reason. You don't over-emphasize. And yet your voice is so flexible that you aren't monotonous. And you don't plunge at every sentence, and come down hard on the first word, and taper off to nothing. If it keeps up, this is going to make me a terrible grafter, because I can't begin to pay you for what this will be worth to me."
"I'll stay as long as I can stand it!" I told him, trying to keep the happiness out of my eyes and my voice at the same time.