Cohen had stood ironing for hours and hours upon
end.
Then the door into the scullery was opened. For a moment or so she kept
her head obstinately lowered, determined that she _would_ not look up.
Then, feeling her own unkindness, she raised it and smiled upon Ben,
who stood there, flushed, glowing, and yet too shame-faced to
speak--smiled involuntarily, as one must smile at a child.
"Well?"
"That--that--music stuff--I suppose it's burnt?" he began, fidgeting
from one foot to another, his head bent, ducking sideways, his shoulder
to his ear.
Her glance enwrapped him--smiling, loving, bitter-sweet. Things were
not going to be as she had thought; none of that going out regularly to
work, coming home to tea like other men; none of that safe sameness of
life. At the back of her calm was a fierce battle; then she rose to her
feet, wiped her hands upon her apron, stooped to the lowest shelf of
the cupboard, and drew out a pile of music.
"There you are, my dear. I didn't not burn it, a'cause Well, I suppose
as I sorter knowed all the time as you'd be wantin' it.
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