"I remember the two prize bunches of grapes," I said.
"I was coming to those ... they must have been eighteen inches long, every grape great and perfect. I remember you said that such grapes looked immortal. It was impossible to believe they could ever rot--there was a kind of joyous frostiness--we went in and asked a little man what kind of grapes they were, and he answered like a phonograph, without looking or showing politeness: 'Black Hamburgs and White Muscats of Alexandria'--your old Sienkiewicz never said anything as beautiful as that, 'White Muscats of Alexandria--'"
"Dear little heart," I said. "Childkin, is it the memory of those white grapes that tempts your appetite?"
"Oh, Michael," she exclaimed, clasping her hands over those disappointed breasts into which the milk had not come in sufficiency. "Oh, Michael--they were two dollars and a half a pound--"
"Heart of my heart," I said, "Stag Eyes, it is now late, and there are no such grapes to be had in our part of the city--only the tasteless white grapes that are packed with sawdust into barrels--but in the morning I will go uptown and you shall have your White Muscats of Alexandria."
She put her arms about my neck with a sudden spasm of fervor, and drew my head, that was already gray, down to hers. I remember that in that moment I thought not of passion but of old age, parting, and the grave.
But she would not eat the grapes in my presence. There was to be an orgy, she said, a bacchanalian affair--she was going to place the grapes where she could look at them, and look at them until she could stand the sight no more, when she would fall on them like a wolf on the fold and devour them. She talked morbidly of the grapes--almost neurotically. But, though her fancies did not please my sense of fitness, I only laughed at her, or smiled--for she had been ill a long time.
"But, at least, eat one now," I said, "so that I may see you enjoy it."
"Not even one," she said. "The bunch must be perfect for me to look at until--until I can resist no more. Hang them there, on the foot of the bed by the crook of the stem--is it strong enough to hold them? and then--aren't you going to be very late to your business? And, Michael, I feel better--I do. I shouldn't wonder if you found me up and dressed when you come back."