* * * * *
Just a moment to banish the black cat from my mind, and I’ll pursue
my thoughts anew.
Now then—of my fortune and misfortune. But did I not previously
think: _or_ my misfortune?
I answered her, Yes. She could leave the manuscript with me. I would
read it over,—read it over very carefully, and tell her my opinion.
The whole truth?
Of course.
When would she come for the answer?
I’d tell her a few days later.
Why a few days later? Why not to-morrow? She would come to-morrow.
The piece was such a short one. One could read it in less than half
an hour.
So I yield to her. Very well. Let her come to-morrow.
My wife has meanwhile entered the room. I introduce her. My wife is
affable and smiles, but _she_ is sullen, curt and unbending.
She arises from her place. Now she will leave.
My wife laughs. “Am I driving you away?”
She, somewhat aloof, replies, No. She has simply been sitting long
enough.
And on the threshold she asks, insinuatingly, “You will read my
manuscript personally?”
For a second I am strongly impelled to return her manuscript, thus
wreaking vengeance upon her for my wife.
But she has already closed the door and is gone, without having
waited for a reply. Perhaps she had noticed the spark of displeasure
that shone in my eyes.
“What sort of impudent cat is that?” asks my wife.