room I had set aside to be particularly my own.

Again I was writing to John, but this time I waited for precisely
his interruption. I had got no further than 'My dearest husband,'
and my pen-handle was a fringe.

'Another fine day,' I said, as if the old, old Indian joke could
give him ease, poor man!

'Yes,' said he, 'we are having lovely weather.'

He had forgotten that it was a joke. Then he lapsed into silence
while I renewed my attentions to my pen.

'I say,' he said at last, with so strained a look about his mouth
that it was almost a contortion, 'I haven't done it, you know.'

'No,' I responded, cheerfully, 'and you're not going to. Is that
it? Well!'

'Frankly--' said he.

'Dear me, yes! Anything else between you and me would be
grotesque,' I interrupted, 'after all these years.'

'I don't think it would be a success,' he said, looking at me
resolutely with his clear blue eyes, in which still lay, alas! the
possibility of many delusions.

'No,' I said, 'I never did, you know. But the prospect had begun to