I went in the direction of the voice, delighted, not ashamed. There, in
that most cleanly kitchen, stood the white-armed milkmaid, with cheeks
of geranium red. She had spread a table before me in the presence of
mine enemy. I said: “I did not ask for supper. I told you I had eaten.”
“Oh, I knew you were hungry. Wait on him, Gretchen-Cecilia.”
My hostess scurried into the other room. She was in a glorious mood
over something with which I had nothing to do.
Gretchen-Cecilia came out of the pantry and poured me a glass of warm
milk. I looked at her, and my destiny was sealed forevermore--at least
for an hour or so. The sight of her brought the tears to my eyes.
I know you are saying: “Beware of the man with tears in his eyes.”
Yes, I too have seen weeping exhibitions. I remember a certain pious
exhorter. The collection followed soon. And I used to hear an actor
brag about the way he wept when he looked upon a certain ladylike
actress whom we all adore. He vividly pictured himself with a
handkerchief to his devoted cheeks, waiting in the wings for his cue.
He had belladonna eyes. At the risk of being classed with such folk, I
reaffirm that I was a little weepy. I insist it was not gratitude for
a sudden square meal--if truth be told, I have had many such--it was
the novel Gretchen-Cecilia.
It took little conversation to show that Gretchen-Cecilia was a
privileged character. She had little of the touch of the farm upon
her. She was the spoiled pet of the house, and the index of their
prosperity--what novelists call the third generation. She had a way of
lifting her chin and shoving her fists deep into her apron pockets.