She turned and smiled at him. He was still standing in the threshold. She had a round small face, and her big mouth smiling seemed to cover it. Her eyes still focused distantly.
She dropped the broom against a shoulder and flung the rag into the fold of an elbow. She laughed.
"What yo' got, this mo'nin'? I'm done. Come along in."
"I don't feel like being alone, this morning, Clara."
Clara's smile was tender. Her face tilted to a side.
"Lonely, Mr Loer?" she said. He felt caressed.
"Oh, no." He stepped into the room, lifting his knees unnecessarily high. He sank down in the morris chair and primed a pipe.
"Clara," he seemed to hold her, "how'd you sleep last night?"
She folded her hands.
"O fine, Mr Loer. You know I always sleeps fine."
"Well I slept rotten."
"I wouldn't sleep none at all, Mr Loer . . . ef I went to sleep same as you does."
He looked up from his pipe. "What do you mean?"
"'thout prayin'. Yo' tole me so, yo'self. No wonder you sleep rotten. Lor! I wouldn't sleep none at all . . . ef . . . I went to sleep 'thout prayin'." She paused. "Watch out, Mr Loer," she said with a sweet tremulousness. "Supposin' the time comes when you cyant sleep at all."
"I don't know whom to pray to."
The old woman looked at the broomstick standing against her shoulder.
"And you so—eddicated," she declared.
She ambled out, still keyed to that impalpable warm measure kindling her feet, her hips, the drone of her soft voice.
The door's gentle click made him alone.
He relaxed forward in his chair. Crumpled hands held his sharp fine chin. His eyes were disturbed. They wandered. They saw his room: sharply each object in his room caught in his eyes and held there. His eyes were hurt because they saw no farther.
He jumped up, flung his coat. He ran his fingers through the high blond hair. He faced his books.
Spencer's First Principles . . . Introduction to Anthropology . . . Dewey's How We Think . . . caught like long splinters in his eyes. He shook his head as if to shake them out.
