The Sieve and the Sand

           Theyreadthelongafternoonthrough,whilethecoldNovemberrainfellfromtheskyuponthequiethouse. Theysatinthehallbecausetheparlourwassoemptyandgrey-lookingwithoutitswallslitwithorangeandyellowconfetti andsky-rocketsandwomeningold-meshdressesandmeninblackvelvetpullingone-hundred-poundrabbitsfromsilverhats. Theparlourwasdead andMildredkeptpeeringinatitwithablankexpressionasMontagpacedthefloorandcameback andsquatteddownandreadapageasmanyastentimes,aloud. 

           "‘Wecannottelltheprecisemomentwhenfriendshipisformed. Asinfillingavesseldropbydrop,thereisatlastadropwhichmakesitrunover, soinaseriesofkindnessesthereisatlastonewhichmakestheheartrunover.’" 

           Montagsatlisteningtotherain. 

           "Isthatwhatitwasinthegirlnextdoor? I’vetriedsohardtofigure." 

           "She’sdead. Let’stalkaboutsomeonealive,forgoodness’sake." 

           Montagdidnotlookbackathiswifeashewenttremblingalongthehalltothekitchen, wherehestoodalongtimewatchingtherainhitthewindows beforehecamebackdownthehallinthegreylight,waitingforthetrembletosubside. 

           Heopenedanotherbook. 

           "‘Thatfavouritesubject,Myself."‘ 

           Hesquintedatthewall. "‘Thefavouritesubject,Myself."‘ 

           "Iunderstandthatone,"saidMildred.