It was on Tuesday evening just as the dusk was falling. I had come home
from a walk, and as I climbed the first narrow stair I saw in the hall
above me, a woman standing under the gas, reading a letter. I caught
her in silhouette, a black form, very tall and broadening out into a
wide hat, but even that way, without feature or detail, arresting.
Then, as she heard me, she stepped back so that the light fell on her.
I knew at once it was Miss Harris, tried not to stare, and couldn’t
help it.
She is really remarkably good-looking--an oval-faced, dark-eyed woman,
with black hair growing low on her forehead and waving backward over
her ears. Either the size of the hat, or her earrings (they were
long and green), or a collarless effect about the neck, gave her a
picturesque, unconventional air. The stage was written large all over
her. When I got close I saw details, that she had beautifully curly
lips--most people’s come together in a straight line like a box and
its lid--and a fine nose, just in the right proportion to the rest of
her face. Also she wore a gray fur coat, unfastened, and something in
her appearance suggested a hurried dressing, things flung on.
She looked up from the letter and eyed me with frank interest. I
approached embarrassed. A secret desire to have all people like me
is one of my besetting weaknesses. I am slavish to servants and feel
grateful when salesladies condescend to address me while waiting
for change. The fear that Betty would find it out could not make me
pass Miss Harris without a word. So I timidly smiled--a deprecating,
apologetic smile, a smile held in bondage by the memory of Mrs.
Ferguson.
Miss Harris returned it brilliantly. Her face suddenly bore the
expression of one who greets a cherished friend. She moved toward me
radiating welcome.
“You’re on the third floor,” she said in a rich voice, “Mrs. Harmon
Drake.”
I saw a hand extended and felt mine enclosed in a grasp that matched
the smile and manner. Miss Harris towered over me--she must be nearly
six feet high--and I felt myself growing smaller and paler than the
Lord intended me to be before that exuberantly beaming presence. My
hand was like a little bundle of cold sticks in her enfolding grip. I
backed against the banisters and tried to pull it away, but Miss Harris
held it and beamed.
“I’ve read your name on your door every time I’ve passed,” she said,
“and I’ve hoped you’d some day open the door and find me standing there
and ask me to come in.”
I could see Betty’s head nodding at me, I could hear her grim “I told
you so.”