TOM GROGAN
Tom made a movement as if to shut the door in his face; then she paused for an instant, and said curtly, “Come inside.”
Crimmins crushed his slouch-hat in his hand, and slunk into a chair by the window. Tom remained standing.
“I see ye like flowers, Mrs. Grogan,” he began, in his gentlest voice. “Them geraniums is the finest I iver see”—peering under the leaves of the plants. “Guess it's 'cause ye water 'em so much.”
Tom made no reply.
Crimmins fidgeted on his chair a little, and tried another tack. “I s'pose ye ain't doin' much just now, weather's so bad. The road's awful goin' down to the fort.”
Tom's hands were in the side pockets of her ulster. Her face was aglow with her brisk walk from the tenements. She never took her eyes from his face, and never moved a muscle of her body. She was slowly revolving in her mind whether any information she could get out of him would be worth the waiting for.
Crimmins relapsed into silence, and began patting the floor with his foot. The prolonged stillness was becoming uncomfortable.
72
