her a lot of pink roses yesterday.”
There was no malice in her flat statement, no envy. Sidney and she, living in the world of the Street, occupied different spheres. But the very lifelessness in her voice told how remotely such things touched her, and thus was tragic. “Mealers” came and went—small clerks, petty tradesmen, husbands living alone in darkened houses during the summer hegira of wives. Various and catholic was Tillie's male acquaintance, but compounded of good fellowship only. Once, years before, romance had paraded itself before her in the garb of a traveling nurseryman—had walked by and not come back.
“And Miss Harriet's going into business for herself. She's taken rooms downtown; she's going to be Madame Something or other.”
Now, at last, was Mrs. McKee's attention caught riveted.
“For the love of mercy! At her age! It's downright selfish. If she raises her prices she can't make my new foulard.”
Tillie sat at the table, her faded blue eyes fixed on the back yard, where her aunt, Mrs. Rosenfeld, was hanging out the week's wash of table linen.
“I don't know as it's so selfish,” she reflected. “We've only got one life. I guess a body's got the right to live it.”
Mrs. McKee eyed her suspiciously, but Tillie's face showed no emotion.
“You don't ever hear of Schwitter, do you?”
“No; I guess she's still living.”
Schwitter, the nurseryman, had proved to have a wife in an insane asylum. That was why Tillie's romance had only paraded itself before her and had gone by.
“You got out of that lucky.”
Tillie rose and tied a gingham apron over her white one.
“I guess so. Only sometimes—”
“I don't know as it would have been so wrong. He ain't young, and I ain't. And we're not getting any younger. He had nice manners; he'd have been good to
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