There must have been a time when he knocked on all the doors of the terrace to find out who was open to him, but for years now he had come straight to her. His feet slapped the pavement inoffensively as he went along. He begged in silence. She kept thinking he might say something to her, but he never did. One time she threw a friendly remark after him, and he turned back so confused that she was ashamed. It was a long time before she tried to speak to him again. No matter what the weather was like, he appeared at the door on the dot. Even on the worst days of winter he did not spare her, but stood before her, shivering, dripping, shrinking, and smiling, with his cap and his shoulders black from the rain, and his upraised hand turned to flaming glass by the wet and cold.

She often thought of asking him in for a cup of tea, but she had not the courage. Besides, if by an odd chance he accepted, and came down into the kitchen, what would they talk about? Of course she could give him the tea and leave him to drink it, there were plenty of little jobs she could find to do to keep her busy, but that would be uncivil, and in any case she knew very well that what she wanted was to talk to him. What she did not know, and could not imagine, was what in the name of God they would talk about. She could not be sure of more than a yes or a no out of him, and the idea of asking him in for a cup of tea and then firing a list of questions at him was even more uncivil than to keep herself silent and busy while he drank it. And she wanted to hear what he had to say. She was curious about what had happened to him in his life, but over and above the ordinary recounting of events and changes, there were things she wanted to hear him talk about that she could not accurately put a name to. There was a lot went through her mind while she worked around the house and garden, alone all day.