"Goodby."

He took her up--it seemed to her between his thumb and forefinger--and set
her outside his door, promptly closing and locking it.

* * * * *

She heard him return to his work. She trotted home. Her husband, as she
paused to look in at his door, greeted her:

"Had a good time?"

She could not answer.

He yawned, delicately. He was seated at his mirror, arranging his wringing
wet permanent in serried rows by means of tiny combs.

"Gooooo--oooo--oo--d night," he said.

That was all. Yet she was kinda mad.

* * * * *

A footle, twaddly love affair! No art. A silly little dumpling smattering
with a brute beast.

"No, he is not! He has noble impulses--ragpicking--inspired! His eyes were
misty when he spoke of it--