I have not a spark of sympathy for Harry--a callow, egotistical
dealer in currants. He ought to have blown out his brains a year
ago. He has behaved in a most unconscionable manner. How does he
expect me to break the news to Carlotta? His selfishness is
appalling. There he lies, comfortably dead in the South Western
Hotel, while Carlotta has literally not a rag to her back, her
horrific belongings having been dropped into the dust-bin. Who
does he think is going to provide Carlotta with food and shelter
and a pink dress? What does he imagine is to become of the poor
waif? In all my life I have never heard of a more cynical
suicide.

I have walked about for hours, laughing and cursing and kicking
the binding loose of my precious Muratori. I have wondered
whether the universe or I were mad. For there is one thing that
is clear to me--Carlotta is here, and here Carlotta must remain.

Devastating though it be to the well-ordered quietude of my life,
I must adopt Carlotta.

There is no way out of it.




CHAPTER IV


May 25th.