Yes, both of them, wife and daughter, were houses. Then he himself must be a house. Houses should not wear clothes. He went up to his room and took off all his clothes. He stood before a mirror admiring his own naked façade.
What kind of house was he? A large winged insect flew against the window screen and crawled slowly toward the top. It spoke with a little voice: “Let me in. I belong to your house. Let me in.” That was the answer to his question. “Bughouse! Positive, bug—comparative, parasite—superlative, paresis,” he murmured, and he smiled softly—so softly.
III
When he returned to the office he saw that Natalie was changed. An amazing and lovely thing had happened. Tears came into his eyes and his knees felt as weak as his brain. He crawled across the room on all fours and laid his head in her lap.
“Natalie, an amazing and lovely thing has happened to you. You have had a bath,” he said.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“Why, you look so pale, and, besides, I saw the high water mark on the back of your neck,” he said. “Where did you do this amazing and lovely thing?”
“In a common washtub in mother’s shed.”
How lovely it was that she had used a common washtub instead of one of the patent washing machines. They were so commercial, so practical. But a common washtub, you see, is nearly related to the old oaken bucket and reminds one of all the creeping, crawling, swimming, jumping things that live in and around wells.
He could see them now, thousands of the little creatures, going swiftly up and down stairs, opening windows, laughing, crying, fighting, and, especially, making love, without any hampering rules, regulations, or restrictions. It was too lovely.