One day the egg pedlar had news for her.
"The music teacher is going to sing a solo for a collection
piece to-morrow," he told her.
The Old Lady's black eyes flashed with interest.
"I didn't know Miss Gray was a member of the choir," she said.
"Jined two Sundays ago. I tell you, our music is something
worth listening to now. The church'll be packed to-morrow,
I reckon--her name's gone all over the country for singing.
You ought to come and hear it, Miss Lloyd."
The pedlar said this out of bravado, merely to show
he wasn't scared of the Old Lady, for all her grand airs.
The Old Lady made no answer, and he thought he had offended her.
He went away, wishing he hadn't said it. Had he but known it,
the Old Lady had forgotten the existence of all and any egg pedlars.
He had blotted himself and his insignificance out of her consciousness
by his last sentence. All her thoughts, feelings, and wishes were
submerged in a very whirlpool of desire to hear Sylvia sing that solo.
She went into the house in a tumult and tried to conquer that desire.
She could not do it, even thought she summoned all her pride
to her aid. Pride said:
"You will have to go to church to hear her. You haven't fit
clothes to go to church in.
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