cotton pillow, the hollowed
eyes, the open mouth and the high pinched nose. If he'd been dead she
mightn't have noticed for weeks; she wouldn't have minded. But suddenly
he knew he was having the paper read to him by an actress! "An actress!"
The old head lifted; two points of light quivered in the old eyes. "An
actress--are ye?" And Miss Brill smoothed the newspaper as though it
were the manuscript of her part and said gently; "Yes, I have been an
actress for a long time."

The band had been having a rest. Now they started again. And what they
played was warm, sunny, yet there was just a faint chill--a something,
what was it?--not sadness--no, not sadness--a something that made you
want to sing. The tune lifted, lifted, the light shone; and it seemed
to Miss Brill that in another moment all of them, all the whole company,
would begin singing. The young ones, the laughing ones who were moving
together, they would begin, and the men's voices, very resolute and
brave, would join them. And then she too, she too, and the others on the
benches--they would come in with a kind of accompaniment--something low,
that scarcely rose or fell, something so beautiful--moving... And Miss
Brill's eyes filled with tears and she looked smiling at all the
other members of the company. Yes, we understand, we understand, she
thought--though what they understood she didn't know.

Just at that moment a boy and girl came and sat down where the old
couple had been. They were beautifully dressed; they were in love. The
hero and heroine, of course, just arrived from his father's yacht. And
still soundlessly singing, still with that trembling smile, Miss Brill
prepared to listen.

"No, not now," said the girl. "Not here, I can't."

"But why? Because of that stupid old thing at the end there?" asked the
boy. "Why does she come here at all--who wants her? Why doesn't she keep
her silly old mug at home?"

"It's her fu-ur which is so funny," giggled the girl. "It's exactly like
a fried whiting."

"Ah, be off with you!" said the boy in an angry whisper. Then: "Tell me,
ma petite chere--"

"No, not here," said the girl. "Not yet."

*****

On her way home she usually bought a slice of honey-cake at the baker's.
It was her Sunday treat. Sometimes there was an almond in her slice,
sometimes not. It made a great difference. If there was an almond it was
like carrying home a tiny present--a surprise--something that might very
well not have been th