Free Day's End and Other Stories by H. E. Bates

candles, there was a hubbub, and an unknown girl in a red dress got up and, after shouting his name, tossed back her jet hair and smiled at him. A little girl began to cry, an old man narrowly escaped burning his beard in the broken ring of flames and kept saying:
    â€˜Irene, my dear, this is nothing to what it will be when you’re twenty-one!’
    But Irene was not in the room and this saying became a joke to all but the man himself. A little old woman at Nicoll’s side, nearly submerged in shadows, kept chuckling to herself and declaring: ‘She’s like her mother,’ and not caring that no one agreed with her. Every one laughed and talked together. A little round-faced boy, with wonder-stricken eyes, blew out the matches when the candles had been lit, and then when the meal began, cried out, injured: ‘I can’t see to eat my jelly, I can’t see to eat anything!’
    But no one heeded him, the noise increased and some one cried in astonishment:
    â€˜She’s really sixteen!’
    And another: ‘It doesn’t seem long since she was born! Sixteen!’
    â€˜I can’t see to eat anything!’ complained the little boy.
    â€˜My dear,’ said the old man, ‘this is nothing to what it will be when you’re twenty-one!’
    And because Irene was still not in the room, every one laughed again. The table shook, the little boy banged his fists on his knees. Then suddenly, without warning, a candle fell from the cake, burnt a hole in the white cloth, and spluttered out.
    A silence followed. Nicoll heard the old woman breathing as if her throat needed oiling and wondered why the quietness was so sombre and significant. And then, at that moment, the red-frocked girl criedout in dismay: ‘Oh, I say! That’s bad luck! That’s bad luck!’
    The commotion, as if under the urge of this omen, became terrific and to Nicoll the room seemed hot, his head stifled and the spoon in his hand like a burning wire. Every one talked of the fallen candle, of Irene and what she would think. Some one shouted her name, but she did not come and the old woman in shadows muttered some excuse for her. Nicoll stared at a red pool of fruit on his plate, sick and depressed by the idea of night going on indefinitely. Again and again he wished it were all over, all the superstitious talk, the hot room and the candle-light which made the heads of the old men look like yellow cheeses. And at last it seemed he could bear it no longer.
    Then Irene came in and, only half-noticed, lit two lamps at the other end of the room.
    Nicoll sat watching her. As she blew out the taper and stood regarding her guests, the smoke swam up leisurely before her face and was reflected in her eyes. At that moment he could only think:
    â€˜How tall she is!’
    Then, as if step by step, he began ascending to other thoughts and impressions about her, and though not thinking consciously of her beauty, it seemed to him that in the hot noisy room her throat and arms gave out a coolness that transformed her into something singular and lovely. Under the lamp-glow her skin shone deep cream in colour. In herstillness she looked not only impressive but transient, too. And because of this Nicoll found that his boredom and the insufferable shallow chatter on all sides seemed to pass into forgetfulness. The unbearable atmosphere cast by the candles and the stagnant air of the room vanished as if blown away by a fresh wind and he was filled with a desire to whisper to her and ask her to answer him.
    He fell into a long, dreamy contemplation about her, ate nothing, watched with joy every flicker that went across her face and was annoyed only when he heard the girl in red mouth in her ear: ‘A candle fell off the cake, Irene. It’s bad luck.’
    He noticed she said nothing in return but began carrying away the empty fruit bowls with a serious, preoccupied air. She passed near him but did not smile and with