In the commonplace pat on
the hand, in the break in the commonplace words there was something that
went straight to my heart. I squeezed her arm and whispered:
"Thank you, dear."
This sympathy so sure and yet so delicately conveyed was mine for the
trouble of mounting the stairs that led to her drawing-room in Cadogan
Gardens. She seemed to be watching my heart the whole time, so that
without my asking, without my knowledge even, she could touch each sore
spot as it appeared, with the healing finger. For herself she made
no claims, and because she did not in any way declare herself to be
unhappy, I, after the manner of men, took her happiness for granted. For
lives there a man who does not believe that an uncomplaining woman has
nothing to complain of? It is his masculine prerogative of density.
Besides, does not he himself when hurt bellow like a bull? Why,
he argues, should not wounded woman do the same? So, when I wanted
companionship, I used to sit in the familiar room and make Adolphus, the
Chow dog, shoulder arms with the poker, and gossip restfully with Lola,
who sprawled in her old languorous, loose-limbed way among the cushions
of her easy chair.
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