The man looked very familiar and I soon realized that he was the same person that I had seen in the artist's atelier.
Still in the same suit he seemed to fit his role as a patriarch quite well.
Rose replied to his questioning: "I don't know Richard, I have lately been feeling so dizzy and drowsy - it must be the weather; I haven't been taking it very well since we moved here to the country side", she replied. "All day I am carrying myself from one room to the next, not knowing what I should do about it. The doctor told me to keep my head cool and supplement my diet with cucumber sandwiches, but ... it just keeps getting worse and worse. Maybe it would be better if I'd just hang myself, then surely my headache would stop, wouldn't it?", she pondered lightheadedly.
"Oh Rose, my sweetheart, such a fanciful daydreamer you are. I'm sure it's just the weather, what else could it be? You have been settling in so wonderfully here in my home village. You even met our neighbors and invited them to our afternoon tea", her husband reassured her. "Speaking of the Smithers, how are the preparations coming along?", he asked of his wife. Rose had gotten to her knees in the mean time and began fixing her clothes and her ribbon which had fallen to the side of her head. "Oh splendid, dear. Just splendid. I can't ... I just can't wait to see them".
Satisfied, Richard was now straightening his newspaper and folded it in half and stacked it onto the other ones that had been piling on his desk. "Rose, dear, I forgot to ask you: could you prepare the iron for me? These newspapers are getting somewhat wrinkly and it would be best if I'd iron them", Richard said. "Yes dear, of course. What would these Sunday afternoons be without the smell of freshly ironed newspapers?", Rose asked.
