“Catch me telling you, you cat!”
I bid her enter the room. She advances to the centre, looks about, gazes toward the door by which my wife entered three days before, directs her deep look upon me, taking a chair, and speaks with her deep, velvety voice. “Have you read through my manuscript?”
I am about to tell her the truth, but I feel that I cannot dismiss her from me forever,—that I desire her to come to me again,—so I reply, “I’ve read it, but not read it through. You will have to forgive me.”
“Where did you leave off?”
Yes, where am I to tell her I left off?
“Perhaps you haven’t even started to read it yet?” she suggests, seeing that no answer to her previous question is forthcoming.
I assure her that I really have read her tale, commencing to relate the contents, and betraying myself by disclosing a knowledge of the end.
“Then you’ve read it all!” she laughs.
“Yes,” I confess. “But only superficially,—I merely thumbed the pages.”
And she, with her deep voice, declares, “Oh, my little story isn’t so deep that it requires a second reading. You may tell me your opinion. I will not cry if my little piece is valueless. I know myself that its worth is very small. And as to my coming to you again, you needn’t worry. I have brought another manuscript that I wrote in the past two days.”