HOTEL BARSTOW
261
envelope than I was by what next caught my eye: it was my own
name, Marburg, written on a memorandum pad together with the
legends: "Call Breckenridge at three" and "flue in the upstairs sitting
room." That meant, then, that there was also a
downstairs
sitting
room so that the house was surely big enough to accommodate me
as well as Hopestill Mather and Miss Pride. Perhaps even now she
was saying to my father that although she realized he was a good
man and well educated, she believed he owed it to me to give me a
better home which she herself was willing to provide.
While I was meditating, I was interrupted by Mrs. McKenzie.
She took very short naps and I heard her suffocated scream. I was
afraid she might sense my presence in the room next to hers and sum–
mon me to eat a lemon drop or send me to the village to fetch her
a bottle of Moxie. I tiptoed out of the room and through the Hotel
and then stood in the back yard hesitating. For I could not decide
whether to go directly home and present myself in the shop where
the interview would probably take place- unless my mother's curi–
osity were aroused at the sight of the black car and she insisted that
they sit in the kitchen-or to go down to the Point and wait there
until it should be over, passing the time in watching the sailboats
and the barges going out from Boston harbor. But as I debated, I saw
two old ladies round the corner of the Hotel with walking sticks and
parasols, and I heard one of them say, "It's not far. The view is
gorgeous and at this time of day, we'll have the whole Point to our–
selves."
In order that my mother might not intercept me, I took the
road on the bay side of the peninsula, approaching the shop from
the rear. I stood on tiptoe outside the window and I saw, enveloped
in the shadows, Miss Pride seated primly on a stool beside the wheels
and shoe stands, while my father knelt, taking the measurements of
her right foot. This foot, short and narrow, wore a tan silk stocking
with heavy cotton reinforcements at the toe and heel, and I was
momentarily shocked at the sight, for I had assumed that every article
of her clothing, down to her underwear, would be black.
"I understand that you are a friend of one of my fellow-lodgers,
Mr. Brock," she was saying.
"He comes sometimes. He is a scholar, I suppose."
Miss Pride smiled. They were both silent as he removed her other
shoe and began to measure the left foot. I wondered what she thought
of this large shaggy man who always looked unkempt and would
have even if he had fastidiously groomed himself. He was the oppo–
site, in this respect, of my mother who never looked dirty or untidy
