I can imagine the contempt with
which he, the pure liver, would regard me did he know me--me, the
liver of the fool's hot days."
"A short French story I once read somewhere," I said, "rather
impressed me. A poet or dramatist--I am not sure which--had married
the daughter of a provincial notary. There was nothing particularly
attractive about her except her dot. He had run through his own
small fortune and was in some need. She worshipped him and was, as
he used to boast to his friends, the ideal wife for a poet. She
cooked admirably--a useful accomplishment during the first half-
dozen years of their married life; and afterwards, when fortune came
to him, managed his affairs to perfection, by her care and economy
keeping all worldly troubles away from his study door. An ideal
Hausfrau, undoubtedly, but of course no companion for our poet. So
they went their ways; till, choosing as in all things the right
moment, when she could best be spared, the good lady died and was
buried.
"And here begins the interest of the story, somewhat late. One
article of furniture, curiously out of place among the rich
appointments of their fine hotel, the woman had insisted on
retaining, a heavy, clumsily carved oak desk her father had once
used in his office, and which he had given to her for her own as a
birthday present back in the days of her teens.
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