tintheantechamberlisteningtothelittlecreak,thesuddenstir,forherheartwasswollen,andpainthreadedit.Myson,myson—suchwouldbehercry,utteredtohidehervisionofhimstretchedwithFlorinda,inexcusable,irrational,inawomanwiththreechildrenlivingatScarborough.AndthefaultlaywithFlorinda.Indeed,whenthedooropenedandthecouplecameout,Mrs.Flanderswouldhaveflounceduponher—onlyitwasJacobwhocamefirst,inhisdressing-gown,amiable,authoritative,beautifullyhealthy,likeababyafteranairing,withaneyeclearasrunningwater.Florindafollowed,lazilystretchingyawningalittlearrangingherhairatthelooking-glass—whileJacobreadhismother'sletter.
Letusconsiderletters—howtheycomeatbreakfast,andatnight,withtheiryellowstampsandtheirgreenstamps,immortalizedbythepostmark—fortoseeone'sownenvelopeonanother'stableistorealizehowsoondeedsseverandbecomealien.Thenatlastthepowerofthemindtoquitthebodyismanifest,andperhapswefearorhateorwishannihilatedthisphantomofourselves,lyingonthetable.Still,therearelettersthatmerelysayhowdinner'satsevenothersorderingcoalmakingappointments.Thehandinthemisscarcelyperceptible,letalonethevoiceorthescowl.Ah,butwhenthepostknocksandthelettercomesalwaysthemiracleseemsrepeated—speechattempted.Venerableareletters,infinitelybrave,forlorn,andlost.
Lifewouldsplitasunderwithoutthem."Cometotea,cometodinner,what'sthetruthofthestory?haveyouheardthenews?lifeinthecapitalisgaytheRussiandancers…."Theseareourstaysandprops.Theselaceourdaystogetherandmakeoflifeaperfectglobe.Andyet,andyet…whenwegotodinner,whenpressingfinger-tipswehopetomeetsomewheresoon,adoubtinsinuatesitselfisthisthewaytospendourdays?therare,thelimited,sosoondealtouttous—drinkingtea?diningout?Andthenotesaccumulate.Andthetelephonesring.Andeverywherewegowiresandtubessurroundustocarrythevoicesthattrytopenetratebeforethelastcardisdealtandthedaysareover."Trytopenetrate,"forasweliftthecup,shakethehand,expressthehope,somethingwhispers,Isthisall?CanIneverknow,share,becertain?AmIdo