Invitations were
issued and accepted. There were some who would not speak to each
other. Cliques, divisions, _societes a part_, existed in the little
band. And they talked many languages, learned in many lands--Russian,
German, Italian, even Armenian--for all had laboured far from their
country, spending the best of their years teaching children of foreign
families, many of them in important houses. They lived upon their
savings. Two, at least, had less than thirty pounds a year between
them and starvation, and all were of necessity careful of every
centime. They wore the same dresses from one year's end to another.
They had come home to die.
The Postmaster entered with the cash-box underneath one arm. He bowed
gravely to the assembled ladies, and silently took his seat at the
table. He never spoke; at meals his sole remarks were statements: 'Je
n'ai pas de pain,' 'Il me manque une serviette,' and the like, while
his black eyes glared resentfully at every one as though they had done
him an injury. But his fierceness was only in the eyes. He was a meek
and solemn fellow really. Nature had dressed him in black, and he
respected her taste by repeating it in his clothes. Even his
expression was funereal, though his black eyes twinkled.
The servant-girl at once brought in his plate of soup, and he tucked
the napkin beneath his chin and began to eat.
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