_Coda_
Rain teemed in the stone-gray morning.
My little Big Day.
A tepid stew was strained from the colander of heaven and dripped in
lachrymose gray juice that steamed on every brick and tile and slate
and on the asphalt acreage of the street.
I sent for my drab breakfast. You are familiar with its one element. A
cup and a cup and a cup.
I set myself to my last installment. For a while, the inked deletions
wavered and ran off the track. I went to the window and watched the
rain smoke on my parapet--looked up at the insipid sky--found no
one there--and finally turned to the roses which drooped a little
in the corner of the room--drooped but glowed--and perfumed every
glaucous shadow of the morning with fond recollection. The lines came
straighter, after that.
By and by I called Hugo about my ticket.
"Closed in," he said. "They're landing a few planes still--but they've
delayed departures. Later, it's supposed to clear--and it'll be cooler.
This is the front of a high coming in from Canada."
Closed in.
"Shall I try the evening flight?"
"Sure," I said.