The Family
our life work, Augusta. We’ve kept our papers together a long while now.”
“Yes, Professor. When I first came to sew for Mrs. St. Peter, I never thought I should grow grey in her service.”
He started. What other future could Augusta possibly have expected? This disclosure amazed him.
“Well, well, we mustn’t think mournfully of it, Augusta. Life doesn’t turn out for any of us as we plan.” He stood and watched her large slow hands travel about among the little packets, as she put them into his waste-basket to carry them down to the cart. He had often wondered how she managed to sew with hands that folded and unfolded as rigidly as umbrellas—no light French touch about Augusta; when she sewed on a bow, it stayed there. She herself was tall, large-boned, flat and stiff, with a plain, solid face, and brown eyes not destitute of fun. As she knelt by the couch, sorting her patterns, he stood beside her, his hand on the lid, though it would have stayed up unsupported. Her last remark had troubled him.
“What a fine lot of hair you have, Augusta! You know I think it’s rather nice, that grey waveon each side. Gives it character. You’ll never need any of this false hair that’s in all the shop windows.”
“There’s altogether too much of that, Professor.
—23—
