denly, and à propos of nothing either of us had said.
"It must have been a week or two, not more. I knew the house had been taken, but not by whom. And at first the name meant nothing to me. I am not a reading man; at least I don't read novels."
"Don't apologise. I have heard of the Sporting Times, Bell's Life."
"Go on, gibe away, I like it. She was just the same only kinder, much kinder."
"I knew she would be kind, and soft, and womanly. Didn't she say she was lonely?"
"And then say quickly: 'But of course you are quite right. Reading is a waste of time, living everything, and you are doing a fine work, a man's work in the world.' She said she envied you. I can hear her saying it." He looked ecstatic.
"So can I. Ella says the same thing."
"Why are you so bitter?"
I could not tell him it was because I had heard other women, many women, who were all things to all men, and that I despised, or perhaps envied them, lacking their gift and so having lived lonely save for Ella and Ella's love. Until now, when it was too late. And then I looked at him, at Dr. Kennedy, and laughed.
"Why do you laugh? You are so like and so