34 ERNEST HEMINGWAY
Weekly. "I'll bring The Guardian, if you don't mind," she said, wrapping the paper in her apron. "It's a new paper and I've not read it yet."
"I'm very fond of The Guardian," Scripps said. "My family have taken it ever since I can remember. My father was a great admirer of Gladstone."
"My father went to Eton with Gladstone," the elderly waitress said. "And now I am ready."
She had donned a coat and stood ready, her apron, her steel-rimmed spectacles in their worn black morocco case, her copy of The Manchester Guardian held in her hand.
"Have you no hat?" asked Scripps.
"No."
"Then I will buy you one," Scripps said tenderly.
"It will be your wedding gift," the elderly waitress said. Again there were tears shone in her eyes.
"And now let us go," Scripps said.
The elderly waitress came out from behind the counter, and together, hand in hand, they strode out into the night.
Inside the beanery the black cook pushed up the wicket and looked through from the kitchen. "Dey've gone off," he chuckled. "Gone off into de night. Well, well, well." He closed the wicket softly. Even he was a little impressed.
