[9] Following that incident, the gentle-mannered artist (for so she thought of him now) would chat for a while. He continued to order the stale bread never a cake, never a pie, never one of the other delicious pastries in the showcase. He was beginning to look thinner and very discouraged. Miss Martha became concerned; her sympathetic heart ached to add some delicacy to his meager purchase, but her courage failed. She did not dare affront him, for she understood the pride of artists.

[10] Miss Martha * took to wearing her blue-dotted silk waist behind the counter. One day the customer came in as usual, laid his nickel on the showcase, and called for his stale loaves. While Miss Martha was reaching for them there was a great tooting and clanging, and a fire engine came lumbering past.

[11] The kindly customer hurried to the door to look, as anyone will. Struck with sudden inspiration, Miss Martha seized the occasion so opportunely offered. On the bottom shelf behind the counter was a pound of fresh butter left by the dairyman minutes before. With a bread knife Miss Martha quickly made a deep slash in each of the stale loaves, inserted a generous quantity of butter, and pressed the loaves tight again. When the gentleman turned back to the counter, she was tying the paper around them as usual.

[12] When he had gone, after an unusually pleasant little chat, Miss Martha smiled to herself. She was pleased with her daring and generous impulse, but her heart was fluttering in anxiety. Had she been to bold? Would he take offense? Surely he would not; there was no language of edibles, and butter was no emblem of unmaidenly forwardness.

[13] For a long time that day her mind dwelt on the imagined scene when he should discover her little deception. Probably he would lay down his brushes and palette and stand by his easel with the picture he was painting--the perspective, of course, would be beyond criticism. Then he would prepare for his luncheon of dry bread and water; he would slice into the loaf--ah! Miss Martha blushed at the thought. Would he think of the hand that placed it there as he ate? Would he...

[14] The front door bell jangled viciously, interrupting the delightful speculations. Miss Martha sighed and hurried to the front, because somebody was making a great deal of noise. Two men were standing before the showcase. One was a young man smoking a pipe (she had never seen him before), and the other was the kindly, poverty-stricken artist for whom her sympathetic heart had interceded only this morning.

[15] He did not look or act like his usual self--his face was very red, his hat was on the back of his head, his hair was wildly rumpled. He clenched his fists tightly and shook them ferociously at Miss Martha. At Miss Martha!

[16] "Dummkopf!" he shouted with extreme loudness. He made a bass drum of Miss Martha's counter. "You haf shpoilt me," he cried, his blue eyes blazing angrily behind his spectacles. "I vill tell you, you vas von meddingsome old cat!"

[17] Miss Martha leaned weakly against the showcase, one hand on her best blue-dotted silk shirtwaist as the pipe-smoking stranger gripped the shouting customer by the collar.

[18] "Come on, you've said enough." He dragged the irate fellow to the door, and then he turned again to Miss Martha.

[19] "Guess you ought to be told, ma'am-that's Blumberger. He's an architectural draftsman in the office where I work. He's been working hard for three months drawing a plan for a new city hall. He was going to enter it in a prize competition; he finished inking in the lines yesterday. You know, a draftsman always makes his drawing in pencil first, and when it's done he rubs out the pencil lines with stale bread crumbs.

[20] "Blumberger's been buying the bread here. Well, today--well, you know, ma'am, that butter isn't--well, Blumberger's plan isn't good for anything now."

[21] Miss Martha Meacham went into the back room, took off the blue-dotted silk waist, and put on the old brown serge one; then she returned to sit before the counter.

(9)此后，这位举止高雅的艺术家（她现在就是这样认为了）在每次买面包时都会和玛莎小姐聊聊天。他依然要他的干面包----从不要蛋糕，不要馅饼，更不要橱窗里其它可口的糕点。他渐渐地看上去越来越瘦，而且神情沮丧。这不由得令玛莎小姐担心起来；她那颗善良的心真想给那可怜的人加些美味食品，但她还是没有勇气。她不敢冒犯他，因为她明白艺术家最珍视尊严。



(10)玛莎小姐现在开始穿着那件蓝点的真丝背心站柜台了。一天，那位顾客一如往常地来了，把五美分硬币往柜台上一放要了两条干面包。正当玛莎小姐拿面包时，门外突然响起警笛，一阵铿铿作响，随后一辆消防车轰隆轰隆地开过。



(11)那和善的顾客赶快跑到门口去看发生了什么事，正如其他人一样。玛莎小姐此时灵机一动，及时地抓住了这个大赐良机。柜台后的货架底层放着送奶员几分钟前刚刚送到的一磅鲜黄油。玛莎小姐迅速地在两条面包上分别深深地切了一刀，慷慨地加进了好多黄油，然后再把面包压实。当那位绅士回到柜台前时，她正如往常一样在给面包打包。

［12］他和玛莎小姐又作了一番非常愉快的交谈，然后才离开，玛莎小姐不由得露出了会心的微笑。她因自己勇敢而又慷慨的冲动而高兴，但也感到忐忑不安。自己是不是太不知羞了？他会不会因此而生气呢？肯定不会；吃的东西又不会说话，黄油也不算是有失女性端庄的象征啊。

(13)那天，她前思后想了好长一阵，想象着他发现她的小把戏时的情景。或许他会放下手中的画笔和调色板，站在他的画架旁，而画架上画的透视肯定是无可挑剔的。然后，他就会准备午餐----干面包加白开水；他会切了一块面包----呵！玛莎小姐想到这儿不禁脸红起来。他吃饭时会想到放黄油的那只手吗？他会不会......

(14)前门的门铃剧烈地响了起来，打断了玛莎小姐的美妙推测。她叹了口气，匆匆跑到前门，因为正有人在那儿叫嚷个不停。两个男人站在橱窗前。一个年轻的叼着烟斗（她从没见过这人），另一个就是那位和善的穷画家，今天上午她那颗温柔的心还为他送情呢。

(15）他此时的样子和表现都一反常态----他的脸涨得通红，帽子向后斜戴着，头发也乱成一团。他紧握双拳冲着玛莎小姐狠狠地挥动。冲着玛莎小姐！

(16)"你这个大笨蛋！"他拼命叫嚷着，用力地敲着玛莎小姐的柜台，像是在敲低音大鼓。"你毁了我，我告诉你，你是一只惹事生非的老猫！"他咆哮着，眼镜后的蓝眼睛闪烁着熊熊怒火。

(17)玛莎小姐虚弱无力地倚靠在橱窗上，一只手放在她最得意的蓝点真丝背心上。这时，那个叼着烟斗的陌生人一把抓住那个大喊大叫的顾客的衣领。

(18)"好了，你说得够多了。"他把那愤怒的人拽到门口，然后又回到玛莎小姐面前解释道： (19）"小姐，我想应该告诉您，他叫布卢姆伯杰。他是位建筑制图员，和我同办公室工作。他已经为新市政厅的设计图纸忙碌了三个月。他打算以此作品参加有奖比赛；昨天他终于完成了用墨水描线。您知道，一个制图员往往先用铅笔打底，绘图完成后再用干面包屑擦去铅笔印。

(20〕"布卢姆伯杰一直都在您这里买干面包。可是，今天----唉，您知道，小姐，那黄油可不----唉，现在，他的设计图纸可以说是一钱不值了。"

(21)玛莎·米查姆小姐走进自己的后屋，脱下了那件蓝点真丝背心，又换上了那件旧的棕色哗叽背心；然后她坐回到柜台前。

完成！
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