He reached down, and quickly and precisely picked up the lamp and set it back in its niche, trying to make the shade hang straight; it slipped awry again, and again he straightened it. He stood there, at the top of the first flight:
“Yes, it’s me, Mrs. Jordan,” he called down. “Knocked the lamp off again.”
He was amazed that his voice sounded composed, perfectly natural. To hear it thus made everything seem different; the hall appeared warm and friendly; the little lamp even seemed to be smiling at him with sympathy and understanding. His irritation at Mrs. Jordan was gone; he was pleased that she was there and had heard him and that he could call to her.
Her voice came:
“Oh—I thought maybe it was someone to see Miss Boyle. If you break it you’ll have to pay for it.”
Once he had started to count the number of times she said that, but long since had lost track. He had on occasion been tempted to smash it deliberately, but now he felt well-disposed toward it and wished it no harm.
He stood irresolute, drooping, without impulse. A door in the basement opened noisily, then banged shut; Mrs. Jordan had returned to her room. Silence. Still he stood—the idea of movement was hateful—he felt physically exhausted, and completely indifferent to all things. He told himself, you might as well be a dead leaf hanging on a tree, blown in the wind now, and now hanging still and dead.…