The Ink
you'd get it yourself. And it wasn't three months ago."
"I always knew you could not argue, Eliza," I replied. "But I am sorry to see that your memory is failing you as well."
On the next day I bought a penny bottle of ink and left it behind me in an omnibus. There was another bottle (this must have been a week later) which I bought, but dropped on the pavement, where it broke. I did not mention these things to Eliza, but I asked her how much longer she was going to cast a shade over our married life by neglecting to fill the ink-pot.
"Why," she said, "that has been done days and days ago! How can you be so unjust?"
It was as she had said. I made up my mind at once to write to Eliza's mother—who, rightly or wrongly, considers that I have a talent for letter-writing. I felt happier now than I had done for some time, and made up my mind to tell Eliza that I had forgiven
162
