Blind mice — Text and Context

Sprague was tall and slender, with large hands and feet. An even color glowed through his darkly tinted skin. He had deep set brown eyes. The other features were large; the mouth straight. A brown moustache, closely cut as was his dark hair, shaded his heavy upper lip. He wore fastidiously selected clothing that displayed an exaggeratedly quiet taste; the cravat chosen in stripes too minute for good general effect, and the cuffs, shoes, and other details of attire immaculate and suggestive of extreme thought for appearance. Sprague’s voice was low pitched and subdued. He spoke slowly and smiled occasionally in an extraordinarily attractive manner.

It was raining. At one of the stations a pretty girl entered the car, her mackintosh and umbrella dripping. John Winter, although farthest from the aisle, jumped quickly to his feet to offer her his place. Sprague moved next to the window, to allow her to sit down without passing him, and at once resumed his figuring. Winter hung to a strap and continued the reading of his paper and his frequent remarks to his friend, glancing now and then at the girl’s profile which was particularly pleasing. She looked demurely at her gloves, smiling slightly at some of John’s conspicuously uttered sallies to Jim. After three stations were passed she arose, and, with a hasty glance at the pleasant boyish face of the young man standing, left the car. Winter’s gaze followed her to the door.

“Why don’t you sit down, John?” asked Sprague without lifting his eyes from his work. Winter sat down rather suddenly. “We ought to put cement into that cellar wall of Howland’s house,” Sprague continued. “I told him so today and it was included in the estimates.”

“I didn’t know he came to the office,” returned Winter. “When was he there?”

“Just before you got back from lunch,” answered his companion.

“I was looking at some designs for art tiles,” explained John, “and so I was late. I wanted to see Howland badly. Did he say anything about my decoration scheme for the interior?”

“I showed it to him,” responded Sprague, “but he said he couldn’t afford it.”

“I’m sorry we ever touched his rotten house!” exclaimed Winter. “He has no more taste than a billy goat.”

“He’s coming in again tomorrow.” Sprague smiled a little. “So you can talk with him yourself.” Then, after a pause, “Lucy is expecting her mother, you said. When does she get here?”

“Tomorrow,” replied John with a grimace, taking up his paper again.

Jim resumed his figuring.

“Here, wake up,” he said a few minutes later, glancing out of the window as the train slowed down at a small station. “This is Rosedene. Suppose we get off here.” And the two alighted from the car.

When they turned into the street where John lived the rain had ceased falling, and they saw Mrs. Winter and Dimmie waiting at the gate in front of the pretty yard.

Lucy Winter’s smile was of the slow but warming kind. Her child’s was also warm, but quicker, like his father’s. As Lucy kissed John, Dimmie (who was named for Sprague, “Jimmie” having been corrected into “Dimmie” by the young gentleman himself at a fabulously tender age) attacked Jim with such demonstrations of esteem as would have disconcerted a less robust and self-contained individual.

Lucy was of medium size, with hands and feet not too small. She had a rather generous figure, the waist large and bosom low. Her hair, fine in texture and not abundant, was of a nondescript shade of brown, and was arranged low over her ears. Her nose was extremely shapely, her mouth large, but so well cut as to be beautiful. Her grey eyes had a wonderful clarity and frankness of gaze. She could not be called pretty, partly because the impression of her personality suggested too much seriousness, and partly because the line from her ear to her chin was too long. She wore a simple house dress of wash goods. The gingham sleeve apron, which she had taken off before going to the front gate, hung over one arm. While not over strong physically Lucy suggested an atmosphere of wholesomeness. And she was direct, almost abrupt, in speech.

Dimmie was a slim child of four with features and complexion like John’s, but he had his mother’s fine grey eyes. Dressed in clean white blouse and breeches, white shoes and socks, his yellow hair bobbed in Dutch fashion, he made a picture of health and buoyancy.

“What a glorious rain, Lucy.” John chuckled exuberantly. “The train went through it like a ship in a storm.”