VIII
When I talked it over with Olga, she was very sympathetic.
“I know,” she mused, “that these things sometimes succeed and sometimes do not. Men are not all alike.” Then she added: “But there is one sure way of winning them back. It is an old method, but infallible.”
“What is it?” I asked skeptically.
“By making them jealous. It is vulgar, it is rococo, it causes no end of trouble. But it is infallible.”
We reviewed the names of all the men who could possibly be employed to arouse Vassili's jealousy. We could think of no one. I was surrounded by nothing but women.
“It is past belief,” said Olga, surveying me from head to foot, “that there should be no one willing to—”
I shook my head moodily. “No one on earth.”
Olga grasped my wrist. “Stay! I have an idea. We will get some one who is not on earth. Some one who is dead. It will be much simpler. I remember there was an idea of that kind in an unsuccessful play I saw a year or two ago. What we need is a dead man—recently dead, if possible, and, if possible, young. If he has committed suicide, so much the better.”
“What on earth do you want with a dead man?” I asked, shuddering.