If you
weed him out of your acquaintance, it is only to realize that he was
born into your relationship a generation ago, before you could prevent
it. Sometimes he is your father, sometimes your brother. Both of
these, however, can be lived down. But occasionally you discover that,
in a moment of frenzy, you have married him! Heaven help you then, for
"marriage stays with one like a murder!"
Imagine living all one's life with a man who relates thus the trivial
incident of having walked with a friend up Broadway last Thursday
afternoon, when he met two little boys about ten years old who asked
him to buy a paper:
"Last week--Thursday, I think it was, though perhaps it was Friday,
or, maybe, Saturday. Let me see: when did I leave my office early? It
must have been Thursday, because Friday I stayed later than usual.
Yes, it _was_ Thursday. It was about four o'clock, perhaps a little
later--a quarter after four, or maybe half-past, but I hardly think it
could have been as late as that. I think it was nearer four than
half-past. Anyway, I was walking up Broadway with a man by the name of
Bigelow. Bigelow? Bigelow? Was that his name? It commenced with B, and
had two syllables. Boswell? Blackwell? Blayney? What _was_ that
fellow's name? I never can tell a story unless I get the man's name
right.
Pages:
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112