Part 31 (1/2)
”Shut up in a box, doing nothing--”
As the lovers drove away, Emily stood at the window looking after them.
There was one customer in the shop, but Miss Emily had a feeling that he would keep himself amused until she was ready to wait on him. She had intuitions about the people who came to buy, and this tall spare man with the slight droop of his shoulders, his upstanding bush of gray hair, his sh.e.l.l gla.s.ses on a black ribbon was, she was aware, having the time of his life. No little boy could have spent more time over the toys. He fingered them lovingly as he peered through his big horn gla.s.ses.
He saw Miss Emily looking at him and smiling. ”It was the white elephant that brought me in. He was made in Germany?”
”Yes.”
”It is not easy to get them any more?”
”No. You see I have a little card on him 'Not for sale.'”
He nodded. ”I should like to buy him--”
She shook her head. ”I have refused many offers.”
”I can understand that. Yet, perhaps if I should tell you?”
There was a slight trace of foreign accent in his speech. She stiffened. She felt that he was capable of calling her ”Fraulein.”
There was not the least doubt in her mind as to the Teutonic extraction of this gentleman who was shamelessly trying to induce her to sell her elephant.
”I can't imagine any reason that would make me change my mind.”
”My father is German; he makes toys.”
She showed her surprise. ”Makes toys?”
”Yes. He is an old man--eighty-five. He was born in Nuremberg. Until he was twenty-five he made elephants like the one in your window. Now do you see?”
She was not sure that she did see. ”Well?”
”I want him for my father's Christmas present.”
”Impossible,” coldly; ”he is not for sale.”
He was still patient. ”He will make you another--many others.”
He had her attention now. ”Make--elephants?”
”Yes. He needs only a pattern. There are certain things he has forgotten. I should like to make him happy.”
Miss Emily, hostilely convinced that it was not her business to contribute to the happiness of any octogenarian Hun, shook her head, ”I'm sorry.”
”Then you won't sell him?”
”Certainly not.”
He still lingered. ”You love your toys--I have been here before, and I have watched you. They are not just sawdust and wood and cloth and paint to you--they are real--”