The old lady was eighty today. She had put on her best dress. Perhaps Myra might come. After all, eighty was a special birthday, another decade lived or endured just as you chose to look at it.
Even if Myra did not come, she would send a present. The old lady was sure of that. Two spots of color brightened her cheeks. She was excited like a child. She would enjoy her day.
Yesterday Mrs. Morrison had given the flat an extra clean, and today she had brought a card and a bunch of marigolds when she came to do the breakfast. Mrs. Grant downstairs had made a cake, and in the afternoon she was going down there to tea.