An Hour in the Life of Mr. Ormsby Welles, aet. 67 March 15, 1920. 3:00 P.M.
Having lifted the knocker and let it fall, the two men stood gazing with
varying degrees of attention at the closed white-painted old door. The
younger, the one with the round dark head and quick dark eyes, seemed
extremely interested in the door, and examined it competently, its
harmoniously disposed wide panels, the shapely fan-light over it, the
small panes of greenish old glass on each side. "Beautiful old bits you
get occasionally in these out-of-the-way holes," he remarked. But the
older man was aware of nothing so concrete and material. He saw the door
as he saw everything else that day, through a haze. Chiefly he was
concerned as to what lay behind the door. . . . "My neighbors," he thought,
"the first I ever had."
The sun shone down through the bare, beautiful twigs of the leafless
elms, in a still air, transparent and colorless.
The handle of the door turned, the door opened. The older man was too
astonished by what he saw to speak, but after an instant's pause the
younger one asked if Mr. and Mrs. Crittenden were at home and could see
callers. The lean, aged, leather-colored woman, with shiny opaque black
eyes, opened the door wider and silently ushered them into the house.
As long as she was in sight they preserved a prudent silence as profound
as hers, but when she had left them seated, and disappeared, they turned
to each other with lifted eyebrows. "Well, what was that, do you
suppose?" exclaimed the Younger. He seemed extremely interested and
amused. "I'm not so sure, Mr. Welles, about your being safe in never
locking your doors at night, as they all tell you, up here. With that
for a neighbor!"
The older man had a friendly smile for the facetious intention of this.
"I guess I won't have anything that'd be worth locking doors on," he
said. He looked about him still smiling, his pleasant old eyes full of a
fresh satisfaction in what he saw. The room was charming to his gaze,
cheerful and homey. "I don't believe I'm going to have anything to
complain of, with the folks that live in this house," he said, "any more
than with any of the rest of it."
The other nodded. "Yes, it's a very good room," he agreed. After a
longer inspection, he added with a slight accent of surprise, "An oddly
good room; stunning! Look at the color in those curtains and the walls,
and the arrangement of those prints over that Chippendale sewing-table.
I wonder if it's accidental. You wouldn't think you'd find anybody up
here who could achieve it consciously."