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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
192
I
like
to
look
at
my
housekeeper
when
she
carries
in
the
tray.
Her
mien
is
festal,
yet
in
her
smile
there
is
a
certain
gravity,
as
though
she
performed
an
office
which
honoured
her.
She
has
dressed
for
the
evening;
that
is
to
say,
her
clean
and
seemly
attire
of
working
hours
is
exchanged
for
garments
suitable
to
fireside
leisure;
her
cheeks
are
warm,
for
she
has
been
making
fragrant
toast.
Quickly
her
eye
glances
about
my
room,
but
only
to
have
the
pleasure
of
noting
that
all
is
in
order;
inconceivable
that
anything
serious
should
need
doing
at
this
hour
of
the
day.
She
brings
the
little
table
within
the
glow
of
the
hearth,
so
that
I
can
help
myself
without
changing
my
easy
position.
If
she
speaks,
it
will
only
be
a
pleasant
word
or
two;
should
she
have
anything
important
to
say,
the
moment
will
be
after
tea,
not
before
it;
this
she
knows
by
instinct.
Perchance
she
may
just
stoop
to
sweep
back
a
cinder
which
has
fallen
since,
in
my
absence,
she
looked
after
the
fire;
it
is
done
quickly
and
silently.
Then,
still
smiling,
she
withdraws,
and
I
know
that
she
is
going
to
enjoy
her
own
tea,
her
own
toast,
in
the
warm,
comfortable,
sweet-smelling
kitchen.
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