It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. The delay was only momentary. Yeah, I’m thirty-seven. I had never dreamed of such a friend as you. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips.
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