sky. Miss Brill
put up her hand and touched her fur. Dear little thing! It was nice to
feel it again. She had taken it out of its box that afternoon, shaken
out the moth-powder, given it a good brush, and rubbed the life back
into the dim little eyes. "What has been happening to me?" said the sad
little eyes. Oh, how sweet it was to see them snap at her again from
the red eiderdown!... But the nose, which was of some black composition,
wasn't at all firm. It must have had a knock, somehow. Never mind--a
little dab of black sealing-wax when the time came--when it was
absolutely necessary... Little rogue! Yes, she really felt like that
about it. Little rogue biting its tail just by her left ear. She could
have taken it off and laid it on her lap and stroked it. She felt
a tingling in her hands and arms, but that came from walking, she
supposed. And when she breathed, something light and sad--no, not sad,
exactly--something gentle seemed to move in her bosom.

There were a number of people out this afternoon, far more than last
Sunday. And the band sounded louder and gayer. That was because the
Season had begun. For although the band played all the year round on
Sundays, out of season it was never the same. It was like some one
playing with only the family to listen; it didn't care how it played if
there weren't any strangers present. Wasn't the conductor wearing a new
coat, too? She was sure it was new. He scraped with his foot and flapped
his arms like a rooster about to crow, and the bandsmen sitting in the
green rotunda blew out their cheeks and glared at the music. Now there
came a little "flutey" bit--very pretty!--a little chain of bright
drops. She was sure it would be repeated. It was; she lifted her head
and smiled.

Only two people shared her "special" seat: a fine old man in a velvet
coat, his hands clasped over a huge carved walking-stick, and a big
old woman, sitting upright, with a roll of knitting on her embroidered
apron. They did not speak. This was disappointing, for Miss Brill always
looked forward to the conversation. She had become really quite expert,
she thought, at listening as though she didn't listen, at sitting in
other people's lives just for a minute while they talked round her.

She glanced, sideways, at the old couple. Perhaps they would go soon.
Last Sunday, too, hadn't been as interesting as usual. An Englishman
and his wife, he wearing a dreadful Panama hat and she button boots. And
sh