I
A pert little boy in buttons put his close-cropped head in at the door of a room where five lady-typists were clattering on their machines, and said:
“Nadezhda Alexevna, Mrs. Kolimstcheva is asking for you on the telephone.”
A tall well-built girl of twenty-seven got up and went downstairs to the telephone. She walked with quiet self-possession, and had that deep steadfastness of gaze only given to those who have outlived heavy sorrows and patiently endured them to the end. She was thinking to herself:
“What has happened now?”
She knew already that if her sister wanted to speak to her it was because something unpleasant had occurred—the children were ill, the husband worried over business, they were in need of money—something of that sort. She would have to go there and see what could be done—to help, to sympathise, to put matters right. Her sister was ten years older than herself, and as she lived in a remote suburb they rarely met.
She went into the tiny telephone-box, smelling of tobacco, beer, and mice, took up the speaking-tube, and said:
“Yes. Is it you, Tanichka?”
The voice of her sister, tearful, agitated, exactly as she had expected to hear it, answered her:
“Nadia, for God’s sake come here quickly! Something dreadful has happened. Serezha is dead. He’s shot himself.”
Nadezhda Alexevna could hardly realise the news. Her little nephew was dead—dear little Serezha, only fifteen years old. She spoke hurriedly and incoherently:
“What is it, Tanya? How terrible! Why did he do it? When did it happen?”
And neither hearing nor waiting for answer, she added quickly:
“I’ll come at once, at once.”
She put down the speaking-tube, forgetting even to hang it up in its place again, and hurried away to ask the manager for leave of absence.
It was given her, though unwillingly. “You know we have a specially busy time just now, before the holidays,” grumbled the manager. “You always seem to want leave at the most awkward moment. You can go if it’s really necessary, but don’t forget that your work must be made up.”