"Nobody ever shakes hands with me," Elfa told him.
He stared at her as she sat on the edge of her chair, her plump hands idle on her apron.
"No," he admitted, "no, I don't suppose they do. I didn't think—"
But he had not thought of her at all.
"By the door all day I let in hand-shakes," she said, "an' then I let 'em out again. But I don't get any of 'em for me."
That, Nicholas saw, was true enough. Even he had been mortified because he had taken her hand.
"Once," Elfa said, "I fed a woman at the back door. An' when she went she took hold o' my hand, thankful. An' then you done it too—like it was a mistake. That's all, since I worked out. I don't know folks outside much, only some that don't shake hands, 'count of seemin' ashamed to."
"I know," said Nicholas.
"Sometimes," she went on, "folks come here an' walk in to see her an' they don't shake. Ain't it funny—when folks can an' don't? When they come from the city to-morrow, the whole house'll shake hands, but me. Once I went to prayer-meetin' an' I hung around waitin' to see if somebody wouldn't. But they didn't—any of 'em. It was rainin' outside an' I guess they thought I come with somebody's rubbers."