“I suppose it’s been for the best, though. Young people like you haven’t much patience for the old ways and customs—you, too, would in time have become unhappy there. But I didn’t intend to ramble off like that. It’s about you I wanted to talk. … You’ve grown into a beautiful woman, Mimi,” he declared, proudly. “Every day you look more like Margot did when I first knew her. And you’ve ways like hers—only you’ve more spirit, more fire. …”
Again he lay silent and Mimi, knowing instinctively he was living again his days with Margot, hardly dared breathe lest she break the spell. The room grew dark but neither of them noticed it. From outside came the soft cries of children at play far away, the bumping of a short, fat street car as it meandered down Auburn Avenue, the shrill voice of a woman calling her child to supper.
“I’m worried, Mimi—not afraid—just worried. I’ve had these heart attacks before but I said nothing about them because I didn’t want to worry you and Mary—but this one last night was the worst one yet.”
She sought to comfort him, telling him little falsehoods about the allegedly minor importance which Dr. Adams had attached to the attack. It’ll pass over and he’ll be none the worse for it, were the words she put in the physician’s mouth.
“Did he say that really?” Jean asked anxiously, yet hopefully.
She assured him that those were the exact words. Jean leaned back on his pillow, a more peaceful look on his face which removed some of the shame she was feeling on account of the lie. She would have lied a thousand times cheerfully if they served to make him more content.